


You Say Tomato

by Galythia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: All The Tropes, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, BAMF!Cas, Banter, Bondage, Cas can't bake, Cas in adorable sweaters, Cas's too, Dean showing Cas Star Wars, Dean's first time bottoming, Dean's first time with a guy, Dirty Talk, Double Pining, F/F, Fluff, Hate to Love, Ketchup isn't a fruit or vegetable, M/M, Matchmaking!Charlie, Misunderstandings, Obliviousness, Pining, Praise Kink, Rom-com, Slow Burn, Switching, UST, because he's got higher priorities than falling in love, bottom!Dean, but he's not a virgin because he's a bonafide hottie, he just doesn't realize it, matchmaking!Jo, minor hurt/comfort, this fic is also heavier than it might first seem, well too bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:29:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galythia/pseuds/Galythia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>This was how things were every Tuesday, 1PM-2PM, in Thompson 705. Small seminar room, fourteen average students, one TF, and one annoying-as-fuck know-it-all by the name of Castiel Novak.</em>
</p><p>In which Dean and Castiel get by with a little help from their friends, and maybe find some inner peace along the way. There's a lot to leave behind in order to grow, and a lot to learn in order to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Misunderstandings, With an "S"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moiraes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moiraes/gifts).



> This fic is written for [moiraes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moiraes) as part of the [2014 Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dcss2014>). Her prompt was: Dean and Castiel hate each other's guts. Really. Everyone else thinks they're just overcompensating to hide their epic love for each other. (Spoiler: it turns out everyone else is right.) 
> 
> I've never written a hate to love fic before, so I hope I've done her prompt some justice! And I apologize for the fact that it's unfinished at the moment. I will be cramming hard to finish it soon (hopefully within the week), but some last minute things came up this past month within my family that made for incredibly little writing time. I hope you understand, moiraes, and I hope you can enjoy this fic in the end, despite this little mishap. I just want to prioritize quality over speed, since it's a gift and I want to put my best into it. I promise I will finish it soon. :'D
> 
> The title of this fic comes from the lyrics to George and Ira Gershwin's ["Let's Call the Whole Thing Off,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQWbqeYsqp8) which is also the main theme to this fic. Please give it a listen if you have the time!
> 
> Also, I will scatter links here and there, mostly to photos of bikes and to YouTube videos of songs, along with pop culture references I think some people might not understand (just in case), although the occasional informative article will be tossed in there too. You don't have to click them to understand the story, but I write what I'm passionate about, so I hope you find the bits and pieces I add interesting too, and go check it out for yourself. :)

“If I may, I had some thoughts about Monday's lecture that I would find highly enlightening to discuss.”

Dean rolled his eyes. _Here we go again_ , he thought, twirling his pencil idly between his fingers, now an expert on the art due to sheer boredom alone. That stuck-up dickwad—Castiel, was it?—was at it again, droning on and on about his deep and profound ideas as if he were the next messiah, God's very own gift to this hour long section for Psych 15: Social Psychology.

Usually, Dean didn't mind _too_  much, but today was a bad day in general, what with his alarm not going off and his previous class running late, which then left no time for lunch. No food meant no happiness and dead puppies, as far as Dean was concerned. Not to mention Castiel had been getting more and more... wordy these past few weeks. It was already halfway through the semester, and Dean felt like he'd learned jack because _someone_  dominated the whole section every damn time. Dean had a strong dislike for people who used big words just to make themselves seem smarter. That was just a dick move in general.

"I find Carlsmith’s research on the justification of punishment—and thus the justification of many controversial ethical mores we have today—highly scintillating. In fact..."

_Morays? What in god's name is a moray?_ Dean was pretty sure Castiel had made that word up. His pencil twiddling increased in vigor, his posture slackening even more as he slumped down in his chair, breathing out a quiet sigh of exasperation that would only be the first out of many, he knew.

This was how things were every Tuesday, 1PM-2PM, in Thompson 705. Small seminar room, fourteen average students, one TA, and one annoying-as-fuck know-it-all by the name of Castiel Novak. Maybe his weird-ass name was just as made up as half the words he used in his highfalutin "erudite" douchebag way of talking. The worst part was that the friggin' TA fell for all of it. Dean was pretty sure Chuck Shurley forgot anyone else in the room even existed whenever Castiel Novak opened his overly chapped lips to _kindly_ bestow some profound psychological insight unto the undeserving world.

Well, you know what? This was it. Dean Winchester had had enough of being walked all over, of feeling like he was stupider than a lab rat just because he hadn't done hours and hours of extra research like Castiel had, on, say, the inner workings of the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex. You know, because some people had lives outside of school.

Well, fuck it. Today was the day Dean Winchester would call Castiel Novak out for his bullshit.

Dean's lips hardened to a thin line as Castiel continued to chatter on, having enraptured everyone into the Disney World of his magnificent ideas. The students around the table were furiously taking notes, and Chuck was looking like he was going to drop down on one knee and propose any minute. Castiel himself was explaining away, waving his hands about emphatically as if he didn't look so stupid and preppy in that charcoal argyle sweater.

"In light of all this," Castiel said, eyes alight because he was on a roll, "we must ask the question, do we not? Is it really about punishment at all?"

Dean's pencil stopped.

" _Do_ we have to?" Dean retorted, feeling a small sense of satisfaction when Castiel glanced over to the opposite side of the table, eyes wide with surprise, mouth still hanging open mid-word. Maybe he was surprised that Dean was capable of speech. Maybe he was surprised that other people were capable of _thought_. What a damn novel idea for a university.

"Is that really the takeaway from all of this?" Dean argued back, sitting up and laying his pencil down, emerald eyes staring down sapphire with a challenging glint. "I would think that the more interesting question would be what this says about fundamental human nature. You know, whether the ends do justify the means or if moral intention matters."

"Well, uh... well, that is important, too," Castiel conceded, brows furrowing as he looked his classmate over. Dean bet Castiel didn't even know his name.

"You bet your ass it is," Dean said staunchly. "But I wasn't aware I'd signed up for a philosophy course, so all these questions are a bit moot, aren't they? Can we just get back to the experiments?"

"That's not even the right usage for the word 'moot.' It's evolved over the years, but originally—"

"This ain't English class either, Shakespeare," Dean bit out. He realized peripherally that everyone was staring at them now, their eyes bouncing back and forth as if they were viewing a heated tennis match, but honestly, he couldn't care less. It was about time someone spoke up under this intellectual tyranny.

"Dean—" Chuck began, but Dean cut him off with a raised eyebrow. The class fell silent (which really only meant Castiel finally shut his trap). Instead of talking, Castiel was blinking confusedly at Dean as Dean regarded everyone with even calmness, daring anyone to contradict what he'd said. This was a social psych class, though, so of course they stayed quiet, ironically supporting Darley's theory on ["Diffusion of Responsibility"](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diffusion_of_responsibility) (which Dean only knew because he'd studied, and not because this damn section or Castiel the Wise had helped any).

Eventually, Chuck cleared his throat and swiveled his chair back to face the class (Dean couldn't believe it was even turned completely toward Castiel in the first place; what kind of section leader did that?). Chuck shuffled some of his haphazard papers around and then gave up, clasping his hands together and looking at the class he was supposed to teach. Dean could almost see the nervous sweat drip down Chuck's temple as he realized, wait, he was supposed to be _teaching_.

Yeah, Chuck. Duh.

"Okay," Chuck said, clearing his throat again and shifting in his seat. "Where were we again? Right. Right. Uh, the tragedy of the commons. Well, Garrett Hardin..."

Thank god. They were finally back on track.

Dean sat up a bit straighter, opening his notebook and hoping he could finally put this pencil to use like it was meant to. He smoothed down the page to keep it open on the table, writing the date at the top in his messy all-caps scrawl. He then began to take notes on what Chuck was stuttering out, and all the while, he could feel Castiel's eyes on him, seldom ever looking away. Dean even glanced up once, and Castiel, the weirdo, had kept eye contact with him until Dean had to look away again.

Well, whoop-dee-doo. The guy had eyes. Fucking deep blue and infinite, like something a poet could describe as "cerulean galaxies of knowledge" or some crap. Luckily, Dean wasn't a poet. They were blue. And big. And glued to him. It was giving Dean the creeps, and he decided not to look up again for the rest of the section. But just _knowing_ Castiel was eyeing him made his skin crawl, his heart race, and his body heat up.

God damn it, would Castiel just _stop staring_?

 

* * *

 

That day marked a change in Chuck's section. Castiel talked less, and when he did, Dean was right there to refute him or reel in the conversation so that they could actually get some work done. Chuck was as unqualified to TA as he always was, and the rest of the class continued to watch the Novak-Winchester tennis match while furiously scribbling away. Dean actually learned a lot from this interaction, or at least more than he'd been learning back when Castiel the Great had done nothing but preach.

Castiel, on the other hand, was just confused.

What had Castiel done wrong, he wondered. Why did Dean seem to have it out for him specifically? Castiel didn't like to stereotype, and he was always open to considering new facts about people, but so far Dean wasn't giving him anything else to work with, save his argumentative style and hot-headedness. Dean seemed brash and bold, cocky sometimes and highly sarcastic. Occasionally, he was grumpy and caustic, though most of the time he was just calm to the point of uncaring.

It gave Castiel personality whiplash.

Today was one of the days where Dean was more his "usual" (if Castiel could even begin to pretend he knew what Dean's "usual" was). It involved pencil twiddling and the occasional scribbled note. There was a lot of looking out the window, some tapping of his writing implement in the air, as if to some imaginary beat, and the rare glance up to look at Chuck, who was valiantly trying to keep the section going.

Dean never looked at Castiel. Save for that day when Dean had begun to talk, Dean had never glanced Castiel's way ever again. Castiel continued to stare, because it helped him in his attempts to solve the enigma that was Dean Winchester. But Dean seemed content with the fact that the section was vaguely back to its roots of being taught by Chuck. It wasn't as if Castiel had been trying to usurp that role, anyway; he'd just been overflowing with curiosity and questions he wished to share with his peers. He couldn't understand why that irked Dean so much.

Plus, Castiel felt for Chuck. Being a PhD student was time consuming, and that was without any TAing to toss into the mess. So Castiel tried to help Chuck out whenever he could by supplementing in his own ideas and facilitating some discussion, but that was what had gotten Dean on his case in the first place, wasn't it?

Well, Dean was probably one of those fraternity types. Maybe he just got annoyed at everyone, and Castiel wasn't a special target. He probably coasted through college for the parties, getting a C average at best, just here for the ladies. Castiel didn't like to think in broad strokes like that, but Dean wasn't giving him much to work with, and absolutely _no_ chance to get to know him better.

That was—until today.

"As you all know," Chuck said, shuffling his papers which he seldom ever looked at, "your final projects are due in a month. But that means you don't have a final exam, so woo...!"

No one laughed.

Chuck cleared his throat into the awkward silence. "Well, um. Anyway, this is going to be a partner project, because we want it to be larger and more in depth than you would do on your own. And just to make things easier, I'm going to pick names out of a hat at random to save you all the trouble of picking partners."

That made perfect sense to Castiel, and actually caused him a bit of relief. Castiel was never the type that had inspired "first choice" when picking teams back in high school PE, and he doubted things would be very different here—not that he'd idly stood by and taken such treatment; by the end of sophomore year, people had tended to leave him alone because they knew he was smart enough and ballsy enough to get retribution in his own covert manner, should he have wished—it just took effort Castiel would rather not expend, like he didn't want to expend now. But if anything, given free reign, the laziest student would probably pick Castiel for this project (that wasn't arrogance; that was just fact), and then make him carry all of the weight.

Castiel liked this solution much more.

Chuck called out the names one at a time, pairing up students as they glanced at each other or waved subtly across the table. Rarely did people from this section hang out with each other outside of class, so it was that awkward first-time eye contact all around.

"Castiel Novak," Chuck called. Castiel glanced up, ready to seal his fate. And as Fate would have it, that fickle mistress, Chuck pulled out the next crumpled piece of notebook paper to say—

"Dean Winchester."

Castiel looked Dean's way, and for once, Dean was looking back up, his pencil at a standstill as he regarded Chuck with incredulity, before turning to face Castiel, his expression unreadable. Castiel kept his own face blank, save for a small friendly smile that was extremely awkward but the best he could muster.

They didn't wave.

Chuck moved on to the next pairing, and after a moment, Dean looked away, tongue darting out to lick his (incredibly full) lips as his eyes traveled to the window once again, adroit fingers resuming their twirling art. Castiel continued to stare, stomach twisting as he began to get misgivings about his partner. Surely, even if Dean was a fraternity student with a C average and women hanging on his arms, he would still want to do a good job, right?

The remaining few minutes of the section passed without Dean looking back toward Castiel again. When Chuck called it quits for the day, Castiel did the same thing he always did, standing up and meticulously organizing his messenger bag before turning to leave. But as he reached the elevator to head down from the seventh floor (Dean always took the stairs, Castiel noticed), he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Castiel wasn't sure what to expect when he turned around, but it certainly wasn't Dean, standing there with the two inches he had on Castiel, worn leather jacket on his broad shoulders and frayed bag hanging by his side. He didn't look happy.

"Dude, we're supposed to be working together," Dean said. "That means that you and I actually have to, you know, _work together_."

Castiel blinked at Dean. Yes, that was certainly the tautological definition of working together, that was true. He thought he was certainly smart enough to know that already, thank you very much.

"You certainly know your definitions," Castiel replied blankly, unsure where Dean was taking this. The elevator arrived behind him and students filed in, but Castiel stayed glued to the spot. Dean was giving him a look of utter exasperation, the one that said, "Are you kidding me?" and it left Castiel so confused (and just a little bit miffed).

"Look," Dean began, running a hand through his spiky hair, "I don't need all of your... your _snark_ , if we're going to be doing this, all right?" Castiel frowned and opened his mouth to argue, because he never thought he'd had snark to begin with, but Dean cut him off by pulling out his notebook and tearing off a piece of paper. He quickly scribbled something down before handing it to Castiel.

"That's my number. Text me and I'll have yours," Dean explained as Castiel stared down at the blocky script. He bunched the paper up after a second and tossed it in the nearby recycling bin, already having memorized those ten simple digits. Dean just blinked at him, and for a moment, Castiel worried that he'd insulted Dean somehow—though he was honestly starting not to care either way, because Dean was not giving him even a centimeter of ground in this partnership. Why was Dean so hard to please?

"Do you even wanna do this?" Dean said, brows furrowed.

"Of course I do," Castiel replied. Wasn't that obvious? "Why do you ask?"

"Why do I—? Ugh, never mind." Dean wiped a hand down his face, sighing long and hard. He licked his lips for a moment and looked to the side, as if contemplating his whole life's meaning. Dean sure was odd.

"Are you free this evening?" Castiel asked after a moment, deciding to push aside his misgivings and take initiative. One of them had to get things done, and Dean certainly didn't seem invested, what with his obvious tautologies and roundabout speech. "I finish my day at five. We could meet in one of the private study rooms on the third floor of the library."

Dean assessed Castiel for a moment and then nodded, though tentatively, as if he himself were unsure of Castiel's motives or something, which was utterly ridiculous. _Castiel_ was the one actually trying to get something _done_.

"Make it five-thirty and you've got a deal," Dean said.

"Sure. I'll bring dinner," Castiel offered, "unless you have other ideas...?" Dean looked surprised. What, was it so outlandish to have dinner while working together in the evening? Or was it just that Dean didn't expect Castiel to have it in him to offer such? Castiel certainly hoped it wasn't the latter. He strove to be a good person, kind and caring to others, and that included bringing dinner for his project partner.

"Uh... sure. Yeah, that'd be nice," Dean said after a while, eyes still on Castiel as if he were trying to figure Castiel out. Odd, because Castiel had been trying to figure Dean out ever since that day Dean spoke up.

"Great," Castiel replied. Then he gave an awkward parting nod and said, "Well, I'd best be on my way. I'll... see you there."

"See ya."

It was too weird to stand around waiting for the elevator, so Castiel made a split-second decision and headed for the stairs. When he made it two floors down, he listened for steps behind him but heard nothing.

Dean had taken the elevator.

Shaking off the feeling that this simple choice was insulting somehow, Castiel continued on. He refused to believe that Dean disliked him specifically, simply because he couldn't figure out what he'd done to antagonize his peer. Maybe Dean just felt like taking the elevator today. For the first time ever. Just a nice coincidence.

When Castiel reached the ground floor, he crossed the lobby, greeting Garth, the security guard, along the way. When he got outside, he turned down the main street to see the telltale leather jacket in the distance, already far ahead. Castiel unlocked his bike, ready to head to his comparative religion seminar. He pedaled down the road and turned left, taking a detour so that he wouldn't have to pass Dean—in case Dean really was avoiding Castiel specifically. Castiel couldn't understand why, but he could at least give Dean the necessary space. No point tossing fuel into the fire unless the situation desperately called for it.

Castiel arrived at his next class with time to spare, so he pulled out his old brick of a cellphone and inputted Dean's information. He then remembered Dean's words and decided to shoot Dean a quick text.

_Hello, Dean. This is Castiel Novak, from Psych 15. This text serves two purposes: giving you my cellphone number and confirming our meeting today at 5:30 PM in Grafton Library, third floor. Also, if you have a food preference, please let me know._

_Castiel_

Castiel was ten minutes into his seminar before he received Dean's reply.

_1) You text like a thesis outline. Lighten up. 2) I thought you tossed my number, so when the hell did you put it into your phone? 3) No spinach. Or brussel sprouts. If by American standards, it goes well with ketchup or some other tomatoey sauce, I'll probably like it. Tomato's the only vegetable that should exist._

Castiel pulled his phone out of his pocket when he felt the buzz, and he stared at it for the longest time before closing the message and putting it away. Or at least that was what his brain wanted to do, but his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, already on the reply screen before he could think. So, for the first time in his whole life, Castiel replied to a text in the middle of a class.

_I should hope my theses aren't so poorly drafted that one could compare them to my text messages. And I have been told that I have quite an impeccable memory when it comes to numbers. I memorized yours before I recycled the paper. It's also "brussels sprouts," with an "s," and tomato is a fruit._

_Castiel_

Castiel was merely trying to keep his peers educated, Dean included. He didn't mean that as a personal attack on Dean's intelligence whatsoever. It was just that there was no such thing as too much knowledge, in Castiel's opinion.

When Castiel hadn't received a reply from Dean after waiting a minute or two, he put his phone away, turning his attention back to his professor. His hand was busy scribbling down notes with practiced ease, but for the first time in a long while, Castiel's mind was elsewhere.

He glanced up to observe his peers, and he almost missed the freckled face he'd come to study over the past few weeks. That was a ridiculous thought, of course, and Castiel dismissed it almost immediately, reigning his attention back to the discussion on altruism as a facet of Judaism. But try as he might, his mind kept wandering back to Dean.

 

* * *

 

"... brussels sprouts, with an 's,' and tomato is a fruit," Dean rattled off sarcastically, shaking his head as he spun the front wheel of the bicycle to get the gear chain in the right place.

"Well, tomato _is_ a fruit. And he isn't wrong about the sprouts either," Sam's tinny voice replied over headphones.

"Just whose side are you on?" Dean asked. "And don't forget the fact that I'm the one who taught you how to say the word 'tomato' in the first place."

"And I'm infinitely grateful," Sam replied dryly, and Dean could almost hear the eye roll.

Bobby, with Sam's technological help, had purchased Dean wireless bluetooth headphones for Christmas last year so that he could walk around and talk on the phone as he worked, rather than drag his phone on speaker with him everywhere and still run the risk of not being able to hear over the clanking of his tools.

Dean hadn't teared up when he opened the gift. No way.

"There's just something about him, Sammy," Dean muttered, poking at chain to test the tension. "I don't know what it is. He's probably great-grandfathered into this place, freeloading off his parents' cash. Bet you he doesn't even have calluses on those well-manicured fingers."

"I don't know, why don't you go hold his hand and see?" Sam teased.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, almost affronted. 

"I'm just saying," Sam continued, pencil scratching in the background as he did his calculus homework, "you seem to be talking about him a lot these days."

"That's because everything he says is annoying, and I need someone to share in my pain," Dean explained, frowning.

"You sure it's pain?"

"Well, I'm definitely sure it's not whatever the hell it is you're implying," Dean said defensively. He tossed his wrench back in the toolbox and reached for a rag to wipe off his fingers. "Sammy, I swear to god—"

"I'm joking, I'm joking," Sam said with a laugh. "Sheesh, Dean, lighten up. We all know you're straight as an arrow and hate people who are arrogant. Those are like your two life tenets. Don't worry."

"Damn straight," Dean said, his pounding heart a little relieved that Sam hadn't figured out his sexuality. Yet.

Shit, Dean wasn't ready for "yet" to come.

"Anyway," Dean said, tossing the rag aside. "It's just wrong that brussels sprouts has an 's' in there. That's like saying Jo should have an 'h' at the end of her name. It's just messed up."

"Uh huh..." Sam said, clearly not buying into a word out of Dean's mouth. "Whatever you think, Dean."

"I think the freakin' truth."

"Sure you do. You also thought tomatoes are vegetables, and Wikipedia clearly says it's a fruit, so..."

"Shut up, bitch."

"Yessir, jerk, sir," Sam replied with mock seriousness, only able to hold that demeanor for so long before he broke into laughter. Dean knew he had a stupid grin on his own face, but he didn't give a damn. He missed Sammy a ton.

Dean's cell phone buzzed from its spot on the counter, and Dean sauntered over to see what the deal was. It was the alarm for 4:30, i.e. time to go if he wanted to catch a shower before showing up for his "tomato is a fruit" project session.

"All right, I gotta go," Dean said to the air, his voice reverberating in the small empty bike garage. What a miracle bluetooth technology was. It was almost completely worth looking like a crazy schizophrenic, if one cared about such things. Luckily, Dean didn't.

"Try not to do something too stupid," Sam said helpfully. "Remember that strawberry is also a fruit, and that tomatoes barely count for anything, vegetable or fruit, if it's ketchup."

That gave Dean pause. "That's just unfair."

"Try a fresh tomato sometime."

Dean shuddered audibly, just so Sam knew just how much of a fan he was of that idea. "Only when it's sandwiched between thick layers of cheese and a crisp, fluffy bun," Dean replied. He picked up his phone, finger hovering over the red "end call" symbol.

"Don't stay up too late," Dean warned.

"You're one to talk," Sam scoffed. "Bye, Dean."

"Later, Sammy."

Dean put his phone back in his pocket when the conversation was over, careful not to get any grease on it, or on the headphones as well as he took them off and folded them, gently putting them back in the case. He took as great care of them as he did his baby.

Dean then put the final touches on the [Schwinn](http://image.lowridermagazine.com/f/features/1304_lrmp_1970_schwinn_sting_ray_1979_pixie/47114174/1304-lrmp-09-o%2B1970-schwinn-sting-ray%2Bside-view.jpg) he'd been working on, spinning the wheel once more for good measure. Rufus would appreciate that Dean had finished this one a full three days before he was supposed to. Maybe he'd eventually even get a raise, and then he'd be able to pay Bobby back faster for all the money he'd fronted for Dean's tuition (after much stubborn argument on Dean's part, of course).

Dean closed up the garage because the bike shop wasn't even supposed to be open on Tuesdays, but Dean liked to come here after psych section to put in some extra hours. Plus, it gave him a good chance to talk to Sammy (about many things, not just Castiel. Dean was sure about that. He did diversify topics, right?).

After a quick dash home and then a shower, Dean was on his way to the library, hair still damp as he skipped up the stairs to the third floor. He checked the sign-in sheet to see which room Castiel had already taken (because he was pretty sure the dude was the type to be unfashionably early), and made his way there, weaving through the reading desks and tall shelves.

Dean didn't bother to knock. He walked right in and, much to no one's surprise, Castiel was there, nose in a book. He looked up when Dean entered, book still open in his hands.

"Hello, Dean."

"Hey, Castiel," Dean replied, depositing his messenger bag on one of the empty chairs and plopping himself down in another. He sniffed the air. Whatever Castiel was hiding, it certainly smelled delicious. Dean's stomach grumbled, but he figured he ought to wait. Maybe get some small talk in.

"'S it interesting?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at the book in Castiel's hands.

"What?" Castiel replied, before getting it. "Oh. Uh, yes. Very much so."

Dean waited for Castiel to continue, but it seemed Castiel didn't want to talk about... _Natural Beekeeping: Organic Approaches to Modern Apiculture_. Well then. Given that, Dean was pretty sure he wouldn't want to talk about it either.

The two of them fell into an awkward silence, Castiel glancing between the book in his hands and Dean, and Dean looking anywhere but at Castiel. What an interesting light fixture they had up there. Oh, look, someone scratched their initials into the wooden table. So juvenile.

Dean was trying to distract himself, but Castiel was staring at him again. He could just feel it. The book on bees didn't even hold a tiny part of Castiel's attention anymore. So e ventually, Dean cleared his throat and sat up, just desperate to get the creepy crawly feeling off of his skin. 

"So," Dean began. "Should we, uh, get started?"

That seemed to get Castiel's attention back, his eyes snapping up to meet Dean's. "What? Oh, right. Yes." Castiel seemed to take a moment to gather himself, and Dean had to wonder what had been going through his mind. Why did Castiel stare at him so much? It made him feel like he had spinach in his teeth despite never eating any—so much so that he'd started checking in the bathroom mirror before section each Tuesday just to make sure. Not for Castiel, of course. Dean was just making sure his smile was top notch for the ladies. 

Castiel pulled a few books out from his bag, along with the brown notebook Dean recognized as the one he used for psych. He could have used it for other subjects too, because it wasn't like Dean was stalking the guy to make sure, but he just struck Dean as the sort of dude who kept different books for different subjects, maybe even color coded down to which pen he used when.

"So, given the parameters of the project, I have a few ideas as to what our experiment could possibly be," Castiel began, flipping through his notebook pages. "First, we could..."

And the rest was like static on a television.

Dean blinked when he realized Castiel had stopped, his eyes coming back into focus from staring at the gray wall for so long. That was either a spider really good at staying still, or a crack in the wall. Probably a crack.

"Huh? What?" Dean asked, gaze drifting to meet Castiel's. "Uh, sure. Yeah."

"Dean, have you been listening to a single word I've said?" Castiel asked exasperatedly, brows furrowed. Dean didn't like Castiel's tone.

"Of course I listened," he said defensively. "Or at least I tried to. But it's like... whatever it is you're saying, it's all Greek to me, dude." Like it was back in section.

"Greek?" Castiel asked, tone betraying his confusion. "But I speak Greek, and English sounds nothing like—"

"It's an expression," Dean said. Jesus Christ on a tortilla, how did this guy survive in the world?

Dean tried to cipher through what he'd heard, trying to see if he'd understood any of it. Dean had caught bits and pieces here and there, but eventually he'd had to tune out, because every other word just made him more confused. It was like Castiel was looking each word up in a thesaurus and then regurgitating the longest and most obscure version he could find. It made Dean feel so stupid, and he'd already had enough of being told he was an idiot while growing up.

"You make no sense," Dean said, shaking his head. "Just like... try again. But maybe without the dictionary."

Castiel blinked at Dean and cocked his head to the side. "I don't have a—"

"Yeah, you don't have a dictionary. I get that. Just..." Dean sighed. This was going to be a long night. "Explain it one more time? Sorry I tuned out. It's been a long day." That wasn't the problem at all, of course, but whatever. Dean was going to give it 150% this time.

Castiel looked skeptically at Dean for several moments but then decided to go with it. He started into the explanation once again, round two for Dean's ears... and still to no avail. Shit still made no sense.

This wasn't working out.

Dean tried to explain to Castiel that he had to speak _English_ , but then Castiel, of course, said frustratedly that he was literally speaking English. Dean wanted to bang his head against the table.

Dean tried to read Castiel's notebook himself, but that wasn't helpful either. The guy had elegant script, but he wrote in a shorthand of his own invention that drifted in and out of a whole slew of other languages. Dean pointed to one section and all but gave up when he asked what it meant and Castiel just replied that the "rune" on top was Enochian for "mind," followed by the notation for "understanding" in Amharic. Yeah, okay. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Fuck this. 

Dean was actually here to learn, but dicks like Castiel, writing overly complicated shit in their Google Translate notebooks and speaking straight from the OED, made it really hard. This was reminding Dean yet again of just how much he disliked people who used unnecessary buzz words to seem smarter than they were. Dean was still sure Castiel was making most of it up anyway, because he was just a stuck up SOB that way.

"I'm done," Dean said, tossing down his pencil like he tossed in the proverbial towel. He'd been here for nearly an hour and he was cranky and hungry.

"You're done? But we haven't even decided what _branch_ of social psychology we're working under," Castiel said, blinking at Dean as if he had three heads. "If you weren't being so difficult, maybe we could actually—"

"If _I_ wasn't being so difficult?" Dean scoffed with a sharp laugh. "That's rich. You're the one who gets off on being all superior with your super in depth knowledge and prick vocabulary—oh wait, is it a _'lexicon'_?" Dean said bitingly.

"'Prick vocabulary'?" Castiel repeated, wholly bemused and just a little frustrated. "Dean, I don't even know what—"

"Look," Dean said, gritting his teeth. "Maybe it's best if we just work on this separately. And I'll send Chuck an email or something to ask if there's any other way we can do this, because this"—Dean gestured between them—"is definitely not working out."

Castiel fell silent, brows furrowed as he regarded Dean, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed and nodded.

"Fine," Castiel muttered, pulling his notebook back to his side of the table. He shuffled his papers around a bit and didn't look up as Dean stood, picking up his bag. Dean hadn't unpacked a single thing since he'd gotten here.

Dean sighed and ran a hand down his face, looking up at the ceiling to ask why, if there was a god, that he'd partner Dean with Castiel of all people. The guy clearly didn't want to get anything done. He just wanted to shove his big knowledge dick in Dean's face and rub it around. Well Castiel could go and suck it, because Dean certainly wasn't going to.

"Later," Dean said as he opened the door and stepped out, feeling the oppressive weight almost physically lift off his shoulders. Castiel hadn't replied by the time Dean had closed the door behind him, though it wasn't as if Dean had stuck around to make sure.

Dean turned left to head down to the basement, where the psychology section was housed. He was going to pick up his own books, because god damn it, he had a psychology project to do, and he wasn't going to let some wordy old-money special snowflake get in the way of his grade.

 

* * *

 

Castiel stared at the door long and hard after it'd closed behind Dean. He allowed time for his blood pressure to drop and his heart to slow down. It was so rare for him, someone so calm and patient, to get this sort of reaction around someone, especially after only an hour in their presence. But there was just something about Dean that riled Castiel. 

Sure, Castiel knew that no one ever took notes in five different languages like he did, but that was why Castiel had been trying to explain it instead. He'd said it in simple terms, and Dean still hadn't even _tried_ to understand. Castiel had felt like he'd just been wasting his breath, with Dean zoning out every time to stare at something new as if it were worlds more interesting than what Castiel had to say.

Castiel had been confused at first, because Dean seemed to be speaking in tongues, but the more minutes passed by, the more Castiel became irritated because he was pretty sure Dean was doing it on purpose.There Castiel was, earnestly trying to get some productivity in, and Dean seemed to be doing his best to provide countermeasures every step of the way. Why else would Dean be so cryptic with his words and speech patterns?

So fine. They could do it separately. It'd probably be easier that way, anyway. But so much for Castiel's hope that Chuck's system would pair him with someone who wasn't a lazy loafer. This was just turning out to be like high school all over again, with Castiel doing the brunt of the work just because he really wanted that A, and everyone else knew he wanted that A, ergo they were safe because they'd get that A by association alone.

Sniffling indignantly, Castiel shuffled through his notes, trying not to feel offended or hurt. Again, it wasn't him personally, he figured. Dean was just a difficult person who was clearly not invested in schoolwork and cooperation. But it sure did feel like a personal attack, even if he logically concluded that it wasn't. It was just that he'd had such a long history of this, of people leaving him to work alone or of being picked last or of being told he was alienatingly awkward and weird that he had to start wondering just how much it was the luck of the draw and how much it was actually Castiel himself.

_"Bro, haven't you wondered why your best buddies are inanimate objects?"_ Gabriel had said once, years ago, talking about Castiel's books. And Castiel _had_ wondered. He'd wondered all through the atrocity that was high school up until right now, this very moment as he sat alone in the broken aftermath of yet another failed academic partnership. That wasn't to say that all partnerships were failures, but that was to say that Dean wasn't the first either.

But certainly, Dean was by far the most irritating.

With a frustrated huff, Castiel set down his pencil and pulled out the food from his bag. He was getting nowhere with this project, his productivity shot because of Dean. Maybe some sustenance would help jumpstart his brain, because his mind was swimming with Dean's words: prick vocabulary... getting off on being superior...

That wasn't it at all, Castiel thought irritably. 

Castiel unwrapped one of the burgers he'd picked up from the student center and bit into it, hoping the taste he loved so much would soothe his soul. It worked a little bit, but what really made him feel better was devouring Dean's right after. There was some sense of justice there, even if it was only a burger. Downing Dean's fries afterward (along with the ketchup Castiel had gotten _specifically_ for him) was just a nice bonus.


	2. Spoke of the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets his first taste of the stormy force that resides within Castiel, ready to unleash if crossed. He also ends up not studying for his electrical engineering midterm, because _someone_ can't keep his remarks to himself (and Dean is too ready to jump the gun).

It was Thursday night (or more like Friday morning), nearing 3 AM, and Castiel was calling it quits on his linguistics homework. He rubbed at his eyes, stretching back in his hair and releasing a yawn. It was time to go to bed. He only had a few more grammar trees to diagram anyway, and he could do that tomorrow after his morning run.

Packing up, Castiel made his way downstairs from the top floor of the library, nearly pausing on the third floor as he walked by those private study rooms and relived Tuesday's horrible memory.

Castiel had begun the research portion of the experiment project on his own. He'd solidified an idea on Wednesday (productivity had been nigh impossible for the rest of Tuesday), and had been working on finding supportive evidence for the proposal ever since. He'd heard nothing from Dean, but he'd heard nothing from Chuck either, so he had no idea what to make of that. It was just silence, and for the first time in Castiel's life, silence was vaguely unsettling.

He dismissed the notion, though, because Dean could do whatever he wanted. His project was separate from Castiel's at this point, as far as Castiel was concerned, and it'd probably be levels below Castiel's regardless. Castiel would do twice the work just to make sure that he had something as in depth and and well done as Chuck and Professor Moseley expected a two-man team to accomplish. Good luck to Dean, though. Castiel doubted he'd opened the psychology textbook even once.

—Which was why Castiel was so surprised to stumble upon Dean in the library on his way out, head buried in what looked to be like, well, a textbook.

Huh.

Despite his mind yelling at him just to head home and go to bed, Castiel hesitantly approached, feeling like he was observing a wild gazelle in, well, a library—i.e. not its natural habitat whatsoever. He blinked and then even pinched himself, just to make sure.

Dean was tucked away in the corner of one of those long tables, practically the last one there despite the library being open at all hours. He was silent and serious, his eyes scanning over the page as his right hand idly took notes, line after line after line. He exuded this air of thoughtfulness, and if Castiel didn't know him at all, he'd say that Dean was, well, _studying_. And that was just mind-blowing.

Castiel just had to know if this was actually happening.

He walked over and set his bag down on the table2 across from Dean, effectively startling him. Dean jumped, looked up to see Castiel, and immediately made to hide his textbook, almost as if on reflex. Castiel didn't know why; maybe it was because Dean was embarrassed? As in, maybe it wasn't "cool" for him to be studying, and if he was caught, maybe that would get his v-card withdrawn from the fraternity or something... no, wait. That probably wasn't what v-card meant.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel intoned cordially. He had a quick chance to eye the cover of the textbook as Dean slammed it shut, before he covered it with his arm. _Fundamentals of Electrical Engineering_.

Wow.

Electrical engineering was so far out of his depth that Castiel could barely even begin to comprehend what one _did_ in an electrical engineering course. Put wires together to make bulbs light up, like they did in high school physics courses? Maybe? Because that was as far as Castiel had ever experienced anything related to electricity, and he'd shocked himself at least five times. The field seemed far too hard, and Castiel had always been technologically useless. He admired people who could understand it, even the fundamentals thereof. Thus, in a way, Castiel somewhat admired Dean—all things relative, of course, because Dean was still a frustratingly stubborn loafer.

Castiel raised his eyebrows, reassessing his previous opinion of Dean Winchester.

"That's... I would never think to study electrical engineering," Castiel commented, tone colored with surprise and tinged with awe.  

Dean's expression darkened, which gave Castiel pause. What had he said wrong?

"What's your problem, dude?" Dean asked. " _Sorry_ I don't study pure mathematics or whatever," he retorted, standing up and quickly packing up his things. "Not everyone can afford to major in philosophy or English like you."

What? That wasn't what Castiel had meant at all. He'd wanted to pay Dean a compliment. How on earth had just a few words gotten so out of hand so quickly?

"Dean, wait just a second—" Castiel began, but Dean shook his head.

"I'm tired, and you coming in here all of a sudden with your high academic horse is honestly the last thing I need," Dean said, his tone weighty with finality as he put on his jacket. "Good night, Castiel."

With that, Dean shouldered on his messenger bag and departed, walking quickly without a single look backward. Castiel was left standing there, hands clutching his bag that was still on the table, staring after Dean like a fool.

Castiel swallowed, his stomach twisting in ways he didn't like. Here he was, trying his best, and Dean had dismissed him yet again. Just when Castiel's opinion of Dean had been changing, too.

What was Castiel's problem, Dean had said? Well, what was _Dean's_ problem? 

Castiel eventually left the library too, bristling and bemused, frown permanently stuck to his expression. It definitely wasn't him this time (though he was pretty sure it wasn't him all the other times, too). He had said nothing out of the ordinary, and yet, Dean still had to take it the wrong way and lash out. At this point, Castiel was at his wit's end. Dean was trying left and right to be difficult about it, to be uncooperative and caustic, so whatever. Castiel was done with trying to mend this partnership, if this was what he was going to get for it.

 

* * *

 

What the hell was Castiel's problem? What sort of a douchebag walked up to someone in the middle of a library at fuck-o-clock in the morning and said shit like that? Dean had been working his ass off trying to study for his EE midterm, and then Castiel just _had_ to come in out of nowhere and tell Dean he'd never even _think_ of studying that? As if he was somehow made of better stuff? As if he had made all the right life decisions and engineering was so far below whatever pure academia shit Castiel studied that it wasn't even worth a thought?

Fuck all of that. Not everyone was lucky enough to study theoretical high brow academic stuff, or even the pure sciences, with no need to care for money or job prospects or anything. Dean was already living on borrowed time being here at college, and he knew that the moment he got out, he needed to hit the ground running to pay off his debts to Bobby and save up more for Sam. That was where the true Winchester smarts lay anyway.  Dean just wished Castiel would stop reminding him of that.

Dean had also had a terrible Thursday, and Castiel wasn't making it any better. It'd started with nearly missing a class, and then being called in suddenly to take an extra shift at the bike shop, right when Dean had been about to take a much-needed nap. He did end up napping afterward, but then snoozed his alarm clock one too many times and almost missed the weekly extra credit movie screening for his elective film studies course. Then he'd spent the time all the way from dinner to midnight trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do for a psychology project. He was still fresh out of ideas, and knowing Castiel, the guy was probably done already, with the added help of his butler or whatever.  That thought hadn't helped Dean in his hours of hopelessness.

Dean strode through the main yard of the campus, only a few blocks from his dorm, muttering under his breath and brooding. It was too chilly, the autumn wind too strong. His EE midterm was too hard. Castiel was too arrogant with his too blue eyes. It was too freakin' late in the night for all of this crap. And there Dean was, too damn tired and empathizing far too much with Goldilocks, a friggin' blonde chick with bear problems.

This just wasn't Dean's night.

With a groan, Dean fell down on his mattress the moment he entered his tiny, cramped single at the end of the third floor hallway. He hadn't even bothered to turn on the lights, and though his stomach grumbled, Dean was too grumpy and exhausted to drag himself to the mini fridge ten feet away. With fumbling leaden fingers, Dean dragged his phone from the depths of his pockets and blindly set his alarm for tomorrow—well, later today. Luckily, he had no Friday courses, so he could sleep in all the way until his afternoon shift. Dean didn't plan on moving before the clock hit twelve.

Wearily slapping his phone down on the bedside table, Dean kicked off his shoes and snuggled down into the blankets, barely having enough energy to slip off his jeans and shove them somewhere to the bottom of the bed.

His mind drifted off quickly, ready for sleep after a long day. But try as he might, he couldn't stop thinking about stupid shiny blue puppy dog eyes and a voice like distant thunder.

Dean hated thunder.

And to be honest, he might just start hating puppies too if Castiel kept this up.

 

* * *

 

"Got a customer up front," Ash said to Dean as he walked by to start his break. Dean nodded and wiped his hands on a rag, standing up from his position with a groan, stretching his whole body. He'd been squatting by this [Jamis](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51kldBQK0gL.jpg) for at least half an hour now, trying to replace the back wheel—and on a hybrid, that job could take hours depending on the complexity of the gears.

Dean made his way to the front, deciding to get out to the customer faster in favor of looking more presentable. He was greasy and slightly sweaty, wearing nothing but a form-fitting black tank top and slightly ripped and scuffed jeans, none of which was at all fit for the outdoors weather, but the back garage was kept like a furnace for some reason Dean could never figure out.

"Welcome to Turner's Spoke-easy," Dean said with practiced ease as he stepped into the front. "What can I do for—"

Dean froze.

Standing there, amidst all the latest models and gear, his hair as frustratingly sex-mussed as always, was Mr. Tomato-Is-A-Fruit, a.k.a. the arrogant prick that Dean was so not in the mood to see right now. He had his back toward Dean, turning around when he heard the greeting. His eyes widened and Dean could almost see recognition slip in—alongside something else. Castiel had this unreadable expression on his face, and Dean was not about to take any of his brainiac flack.

"Castiel," Dean said tersely, trying to be civil and professional, giving Castiel no chance to say whatever it is he clearly wanted to say. "What can I do for you today?"

Castiel blinked at Dean for several moments, that odd look still in his eye, before he asked, point blank, "You work here?" Dean couldn't figure out Castiel's tone, but he didn't like the question regardless, simply because it came from Castiel's lips.

"So what if I do?" Dean asked. "You gonna write me up 'cause I have to work to survive through school?"

" _Dean_ —"

"Not everyone has their father's bank account."

Castiel's eyes flashed with something startlingly dangerous, and that shut Dean up. He stared, wide-eyed, emotions in turmoil. On one hand, hell yeah he stuck by what he'd said, but on the other hand, he felt fear strike the pit of his stomach for the first time since he'd ever spoken to Castiel. Those eerily staring blue eyes sure knew how to threaten when they wanted to.

Dean thought Castiel was going to say something hostile, call Dean out for his shit or whatever, but instead, the dude just looked away after a moment, a grimace set heavily on his lips.

"Mr. Winchester," Castiel began coldly, clearly trying his best to be professional. Dean didn't like being called that; it likened him too much to his dad. Plus, the name _Dean_ just sounded so... nice rolling around in Castiel's voice. Dean sort of missed it now that it was gone. Or maybe it was just that he hated being called "Mr. Winchester" so much that anything sounded better than that. Yeah, that was probably it.

"I will not dignify your statement with an explanation of my own financial situation," Castiel continued, eyes staring long and hard at Dean, who felt chills chase down his spine. "Instead, I've merely come here to request your services in fixing my bicycle. If you are incapable of keeping civil and holding your hot-headed, argumentative tongue long enough to complete a transaction, then I will gladly take my business elsewhere."

"Wait a friggin' minute," Dean said, gaining back some of his own spark. "My _tongue_ isn't—"

Castiel raised one eyebrow at Dean.

"You prove my point for me," Castiel said, and it sounded almost smug, if not a little pitying, and Dean wasn't having _any_ of that. But he realized that any further argument would only play right into Castiel's hand, and that was even _worse_.

Fuck Castiel. Fuck him and his sly games, trying to trick Dean like that. The bastard was so stupidly clever, and he _knew_ it, too. Ugh.

Dean bit back his retort, crossing his arms and staring at the ground for several moments, letting the silence stretch out as he tried to regain order in his brain. Eventually, he grabbed the clipboard from the counter and shoved it at Castiel.

"Fill this out," Dean said, "and then leave your bike behind the counter. We'll contact you when it's done."

With that, Dean turned on his heel and stepped into the back, letting Castiel pick his fate. Dean didn't need to stand around making small talk to some snobby a-hole. He had plenty of other work to do.

"What did he want?" Ash asked when Dean walked by.

"Dunno," Dean muttered, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart and hoping his blood pressure dropped before he popped an aneurysm. "He was pretty indecisive"—i.e. pretentiously picky—"so I left him with the forms and told him to leave his bike out front if he decided he wanted it fixed after all."

Ash stopped tossing his ball in the air, the front legs of his chair slamming down on the ground as he gave Dean more of his attention.

"You okay, man?" Ash asked, watching Dean resume his position next to the Jamis.

"Peachy."

Ash hesitated, but then sighed and stood up, putting the ball back by the pen holder on the cluttered desk. Wordlessly, he cranked the volume of the AC/DC tape all the way up before sauntering back out front to the empty store, where a bicycle was waiting, form neatly filled out on the counter by its side.

_Castiel Novak_ , Ash read. Odd name.

Without further thought, Ash slotted the form into Dean's box before wheeling the bike around to the storage area, where they were kept to await repairs or their owners.


	3. And I Don't Like Star Wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics, getting people into trouble since 1978—especially if they don't know what they're talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were so many different punny chapter titles I wanted to have here, you have no idea.

Castiel stepped out of the shower Saturday morning to find an email in his inbox. _[Important] Your Repairs are Complete._  That was surprising, considering he'd only dropped it off yesterday. Was this some scam? But no, true to the title, the body of the email contained an invoice for the total cost to be paid upon pick-up of his bicycle.

Castiel scanned the email, impressed at how detailed this shop was in informing him of all the changes and costs, down to each separate part that had to be used to accomplish what he'd asked for, which was fix the rear brakes. However, there were also a bunch of additional adjustments like "replacement chain" and "replacement front wheel inner tube," which he didn't remember requesting—and more importantly, those changes had been made free of charge.

Castiel cocked his head as he stared at the screen of his laptop, puzzled. What an odd business model this store had. His eyes studied the email more closely, scrolling through until he finally got to the "Additional Notes" section. _Additional non-specified repair was done with compliments of the mechanic_ , it read. _Please contact us by email or phone if you are dissatisfied or would like these repairs reverted._

Wow. Castiel was going to have to thank this person profusely for taking so much care of his bicycle. He doubted the shop did this with all the bikes that came to them, otherwise they'd be bankrupt. But Castiel was grateful for the changes. Hknew nothing about bicycles, and was sure his was in shambles, rusting away and barely held together by duct tape. He'd only asked for the bare minimum changes in order to keep riding safely, but it seemed the mechanic who worked on his bicycle had gone all out.

Castiel was touched.

Castiel scrolled to the bottom of the email to acquire the mechanic's name. Surely, in a company so personal and organized, they would provide information about that. And sure enough, below the notes section, the name of his mechanic was written clearly in bolded text.

**Dean Winchester.**

Castiel read that again just to make sure. But no matter how many times he blinked or pinched himself, the name remained unchanged. He refreshed the email just in case. He  stared at the name for a solid ten minutes before finally pushing his laptop aside, leaning back on his couch to observe the subtle patterns on his ceiling. 

Dean Winchester.

Castiel rolled that name around in his mind for a while. He was so ambivalent toward this man. One moment Dean was an argumentative jerk by whom Castiel could never do right, the next he was fixing up Castiel's bicycle free of charge. No doubt Dean had read the name at the top of the repair form, yet he'd still chosen to devote his time into ensuring Castiel's bike was in top shape, clearly going above and beyond the call of duty. But  _why_?

This was even more puzzling than seeing Dean studying in the library. Castiel had no idea how to reconcile these jarring impressions, juxtaposed against each other like two pieces belonging to entirely different puzzles. It was giving him a headache.

Castiel had left the bike shop yesterday in a foul mood, not having expected to see Dean there of all places, not to mention to see him looking so... so _hot_ , for lack of better terms. Yes, Castiel swung that way, and yes, Dean had a chiseled jaw the sort of which sculptors usually depicted on an Adonis statue and an appealing smattering of sun-kissed freckles, but he usually wasn't _gorgeous_ or anything, at least not more than usual.

But seeing him there with his form-fitting shirt, arms bare and sinewy muscles all grease-streaked and revealed to the world... it was no wonder Castiel had stared. He'd stared at Dean's broad shoulders, eyes tracing up the muscle line of his neck to his jaw and then right back down, sure that the tank top was hiding some intense abdominal muscles. Irrationally, Castiel had very much wanted Dean to turn around right then so he could admire that undoubtedly fine behind, and he'd been appalled at that thought process alone.

Castiel should have known better than to make small talk, he should have known better than to ask a question that would help clear up his mixed impressions of Dean. He'd merely been curious, and again, a little admiring that Dean had time both to study extremely difficult subjects like electrical engineering and to work part time, which Castiel had assumed (correctly) was to pay for school. Castiel himself was lucky to have deep pockets, though he was unlucky in other aspects, which Dean had so kindly reminded him of yesterday.

Dean knew nothing about Castiel's personal life.  That had probably been his one saving grace back in the shop, to keep Castiel from lashing out at Dean at the mention of Castiel's father. Castiel had had to remind himself that Dean was ignorant, that Dean, with his loud and unthinking mouth, actually knew nothing of the truth, otherwise Dean would never be so willfully callous and hurtful. Dean was lucky Castiel had such good control over his own bodily reactions, that Castiel could keep his logical mind in the driver's seat, otherwise Dean would have likely ended up with a bloody nose.

Just thinking about it again made Castiel's blood begin to bubble.

He hated this feeling.

Castiel hugged a pillow to his chest, willing these scornful emotions to go away. Dean hadn't known any better. Dean hadn't known any better, and after Castiel had left the shop, he'd calmed down quickly with the soothing mantras of his own mind. Heck, even after Dean had returned to the back room, Castiel had calmed down enough to fill out the form and make the right decision to leave his bike at Turner's Spoke-easy and not take it to another place. The shop was clearly the best deal around, and Castiel was proud that at the time, he hadn't let emotions dictate actions he'd regret later. However, this was also the first time in years he'd even run the danger of having his emotions roam free in the first place.

It was all Dean's fault.

Stupid Dean with his stupidly ignorant mouth and his difficult attitude. Stupid Dean and his stubborn uncooperative ways, his slacking through school (which apparently wasn't the case, exhibit A: the library), and his lazy lack of work ethic (which also apparently wasn't true, exhibit B: the bike shop). Stupid Dean for being attractive and still so _annoyingly_ defensive, throwing up a wall every single time Castiel even said one word.

Castiel buried his head in the pillow. Ugh, Dean.

 

* * *

 

Around noon, Castiel made his way to the shop. It'd taken him all morning to work himself down, to logic his way through Dean's behavior and come up with a plan of action. Maybe he'd been missing something. Maybe they'd both gotten off on the wrong foot, and there was some ludicrous friendship to be had here, despite all of their mishaps so far. Castiel could only hope, otherwise his logical reasoning would falter and his own mind would likely implode.

The door chime jingled when Castiel opened the door. The man with the mullet was back at the front, nodding his head to the music playing over the speakers. Lots of guitar arpeggios and some choir of men singing lyrics Castiel could barely discern. Something about bicycles. A lot of bicycles and wanting to ride them. How fitting.

"Heyyy!" mullet-man called from behind the counter. "Castiel, right?"

Castiel blinked and then nodded. He hadn't thought he was all that memorable. This place had incredible customer service.

The man behind the counter—Ash, his name tag read—chuckled at Castiel's affirmation, shaking his head as he rifled around the folders for Castiel's forms.

"Dean spent a helluva long time on your ride, dude. Redid your paint job and everything. You must be some kinda special," Ash commented, licking his thumb to flip through some papers.

Castiel's brows furrowed and, irrationally, his heart picked up the pace. _Special_. Ha. If only Ash knew.

"I... I can assure you that I'm nothing of the sort," Castiel said stiffly, not sure how to take this news. "Actually, I'm... I'm pretty sure Dean dislikes me, though I can't understand why."

"Dislikes you?" Ash parroted with a guffaw. "Nah," he said, shaking his head, sounding 500% sure with himself, "Dean wouldn't do that for just anyone. You must have made some sort of _fantastic_ impression. I mean, I came in at seven and he was already here, working on your [ Shinola](https://www.google.com/search?q=shinola+bixby&safe=off&biw=1595&bih=894&tbm=isch&source=lnms&sa=X&ei=3o2oVKnsA9CWyAT8q4KoAw&ved=0CAgQ_AUoAQ)."

The crease between Castiel's eyebrows deepened. Was this the same Dean they were talking about? The one with the perpetually disapproving frown and pugnacious eyes? Then again, as the invoice had said, this long list of additional touch ups and replacements had been done with compliments of the mechanic. Castiel didn't know how it worked, but _someone_ had to pay for the parts somewhere, right? Was it Dean?

"Well, thats..." Castiel was lost for words. "That's certainly a surprise," he finally eked out, empty words for an empty mind. His head was swimming.

Ash finally pulled out the right set of documents. He flipped through them to check that everything was in order before inputting some numbers into the computer and pulling up the invoice there.

"Right," Ash said. "Your total is... a hundred even. And that's only because Shinola runs Shimano only for brake levers, and that stuff's steep." Ash shook his head and whistled. "You've got a damn sweet ride, though. Runs for a couple thousand if maintained well."

"Interesting. I never knew that," Castiel replied conversationally, pulling out his wallet. He bet Dean knew that. Castiel wondered if that was part of the reason Dean had decided to fix it up, because it was such a good bicycle that seeing it run down was a waste? Because Castiel certainly wasn't the inspiration behind those impromptu free-of-charge repairs, that much he knew.

Castiel handed over his card and Ash rung him up. It didn't slip past Castiel that, true to his email, he only had to pay for the brakes. Who was paying for the rest was still an enigma.

Ash handed back Castiel's card and got Castiel's signature on the receipt before shuffling around some more papers on the counter. He finally found the one he was looking for, the type with multiple sheets of ink transfer paper behind it. Ash looked it over once before turning it to face Castiel, a big X at the bottom.

"Sign there to say you received your bike safe and sound while I go out back to bring her up," Ash said, handing Castiel a pen. Castiel checked over the form as Ash ducked out to the garage, skimming over all the text before signing at the bottom with a flourish, adding the date (in date-month-year format).

Castiel was then left to stand in silence, accompanied by soft crooning about bicycles, and his mind drifted once again to the puzzle that was Dean Winchester. Castiel was becoming more and more convinced, especially given Ash's words, that there was just some misunderstanding between Dean and himself. There must have been, otherwise Castiel might have just won the Nobel Prize for discovering the most enigmatic human in scientific history.

There was some humming and muttered singing coming from the back left of the shop, and it piqued Castiel's curiosity, pulling him out of his thoughts. Ever the sleuth, Castiel sidled over to investigate. It was a free country and he was technically still up at the front area of the shop where customers could walk around.

Castiel approached and rounded the corner, only to find Dean up on a short A-ladder, cloth in his hand and bucket at his feet, cleaning the window. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was that yes, Dean's back side—all of it—looked better than anything Castiel could have ever imagined yesterday. And third, that Dean was singing along [to the song playing overhead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GugsCdLHm-Q) in guttural tones, his voice gruff but his expression contorted into one of... passion? Castiel couldn't quite place it, but Dean certainly seemed to be enjoying himself.

_You say black I say white  
__You say bark I say bite_  
_You say shark I say hey man_  
_Jaws was never my scene_  
_And I don't like Star Wars_

That was what Dean sung, except the lyrics didn't match up with the loudspeakers toward the end, when Dean started "correcting" the words for his own purposes: "Jaws was always my scene and I do like Star Wars."

How... adorable.

Wait—no. Not adorable. Confusing. Entertaining. And perhaps apt for the moment Castiel walked up, because it clearly did seem that Castiel and Dean were at odds like the lyrics of the song depicted, but certainly not _adorable_.

Dean seemed to be lost in his own world, which was perhaps why he hadn't noticed Castiel come in and talk to Ash, or Castiel approaching behind him. Thus, when Castiel also finally interrupted Dean's singing, his voice rumbling above the music, Dean jumped and nearly fell off the ladder, brought back to reality.

"Do you?" Castiel asked quietly. His eyes widened and he took a step forward when Dean stumbled.

"Jesus Christ!" Dean hissed. "Ash, I swear to god—" Dean turned around and paused, glare directed at Castiel, his surprise fleeting before it was replaced by irritation.

"Castiel," Dean said, in the most unfriendly way, almost exasperatedly. He ran a hand over his face. "Are you a friggin' ghost or something? Can't you like... clap your hands when you walk around?"

Already, this seemed to be going south. Castiel was already confused and a little riled up, not taking well to Dean yelling at him... about ghosts and hand clapping? What in God's name was going on?

"No...?" Castiel ventured a reply, unsure how to answer the very odd question. "Why would I want to—"

"Never mind," Dean sighed, tossing his cloth down on the side of the ladder and climbing down. "What do you want?" he asked when his left foot touched the ground. "Ash not there to fulfill all your kingly needs?"

Castiel's brows furrowed. "No, I— kingly needs— what?" He shook his head. "Never mind that. You never answered my question."

"What question?"

"Do you? Like Star Wars?"

Dean stared at Castiel so openly that Castiel had no choice but to stare back, and they seemed to hold eye contact for what felt like a millennium before Dean finally blinked, his brows now furrowing.

"What the hell sort of a question is that? Of course I like Star Wars. Anyone worth their salt likes Star Wars," Dean said with conviction. Castiel shrugged.

"Guess I'm not worth my salt, then," he said plainly, which made Dean—honest to god— _back up._

"Hold up," he said, looking at Castiel through slitted eyes of suspicion. "On top of everything else, you're saying you don't like _Star Wars_?" Dean huffed, clearly outraged and almost personally affronted.

Everything else? Castiel mentally questioned. What did Dean mean by "everything else"? He opened his mouth to ask, but Dean was off on his rant.

"You're like... you're like the... the _Devil_ ," Dean said with a shudder. "A pretentious, spoiled Satan of our day and age."

"Dean—"

"I mean, I get that you want to show off your intelligence and hold it over our heads because you can, though it's douchey and the lowest of the low—"

" _Dean_ —"

"But even _that's_ forgivable. Star Wars, on the other hand, is just like, wow. Do you even have a _life_ outside of—"

" _Dean Winchester, for the love of God, will you just SHUT UP_?"

The music wound down just as Castiel's words rang across the empty shop, leaving them both to stew in the ensuing silence. Castiel hadn't intended to get irritated, but as a Christian (of his own personalized denomination), being called the Devil on a Saturday morning was not his idea of fun. Neither was being ranted at by a confusingly generous and hot mechanic who seemed to have it out for him. God damn it, approaching Dean again had been such a mistake. Castiel should have learned by now. Why did he keep trying?

Dean, on the other hand, was staring openly at Castiel, mouth agape as he tried to process what he just saw. Castiel, usually so calm and put together, a little irritable at best, had just _yelled_ at him. Dean didn't even know Castiel's voice could reach such intense decibels. Jesus.

Castiel apparently wasn't done, though.

"First things first," Castiel growled, which made Dean back up one step, his right foot up against the foot of the ladder. "I am _not_ the Devil. I like to think I'm at the opposite end of the spectrum. I try to be nice and kind and patient, and for some reason, _you_ have had it out for me since day one," Castiel hissed, poking Dean in the chest. "I don't know what I ever did to you, and I won't say I'm sorry. I only apologize if I know what I'm apologizing for."

Castiel's eyes burned with an intense blue, and Dean was enraptured. He was starting to see what poets saw, now. This was some deep shit staring him in the face, passionate azure flame that reflected the sunlight from the window so intensely that it was almost breathtaking. Eyes that stared right into Dean's soul, searing their mark there permanently.

Dean was stapled to the spot.

"Second," Castiel continued, his hot breath ghosting over Dean's face. "I don't _lord_ my intelligence over you or anything of the sort. I don't have it in my mind that I'm better than everyone else. In fact, to this day, I've thought that _you_ are superior to me in many ways." Dean's eyes widened. "But don't let that get to your head," Castiel spat, "because every single time I _start_ to think that you're a better person, that I've misunderstood your venom somehow, you come back at me twofold. I have _tried_ , Dean Winchester. I have tried, and you have fought me every step of the way."

Castiel was like... spitting fire, now. Dean had no other way to describe it. He was on a roll and he was not backing down, and honest to god, it was actually kinda... hot? Jesus Christ. Dean was _not_ thinking that right now. This was friggin' _Castiel Novak_ for god's sake, d-bag of the century. Yelling at him. Dean's mind had to be messed up. It was the fumes from the cleaning fluid. It had to be.

"Third," Castiel growled, backing Dean up further until he was flush against the short ladder, almost sitting down against the top rung. "I have never _seen_ Star Wars, so how could I _possibly know if I like it or not_? I was just trying to make conversation with you! But every time I try, you scorn me and insult me and cut me off before I can say anything else, so Lord knows why I try anymore!"

Castiel finished in a huff, breathing a bit labored. He'd never gone out like this on anyone, save for once on Lucifer, and that had been a bad scene all around. But Dean just did things to his psyche, riled up his mind and made him so fed up with being misunderstood and treated like he was a terrible person, just because Dean would never give him the chance to explain himself.

Well this was Castiel's explanation, and Dean could take it or leave it.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, his expression unreadable, but Ash's voice trailed in from the back room, accompanied by the telltale rapid clicking of a bicycle.

"... paint job on this thing is top notch. Shit, man. I don't even know where Dean found the—"

Ash paused and the click-click slowed down to a full stop. Castiel turned around and Dean leaned to the side to look past Castiel at Ash.

"Am I, uh, interruptin' something?" Ash asked, bemused. He began to wheel the bike backward as if rewinding his whole walk. "I can, uh, leave you guys alone, if you, uh..."

"No, it's fine," Castiel said quickly, stepping away from Dean without a look back. "I was just about to leave."

Ash looked like he clearly didn't believe that whatsoever, but it wasn't his place to argue, so he just shot Dean a glance past Castiel before shrugging.

"All right," Ash replied, passing Castiel his bike. Castiel didn't even look it over as he took it by the handlebars, though it was clear to anyone even at a glance that it was gorgeous. Dean had done an amazing job, and if Castiel hadn't known better, he'd have said it wasn't his bike whatsoever.

"Thank you," Castiel said to Ash, able to remain civil to others, especially now that he'd gotten all of that off his chest. Castiel never brooded, never stayed angry for too long, simply because there was no logic behind it. Once he'd fought his battle, he was done. Energy was better spent elsewhere.

Thus, Castiel paused before wheeling his bike out. His breath was still a little belabored, his blood running a little hot, but his mind was as clear as ever, and his morals were intact.

"I..." Castiel swallowed, turning his face a little so that his voice could be heard behind him. "Thank you, Dean," Castiel murmured. "I don't know why, but you went above and beyond the call of duty to repair my bicycle, despite the fact that you seem to dislike me very much, so... thank you. You may confuse and irritate me greatly, but your service is independent of our... differences."

Castiel cleared his throat, nodded to Ash, and then walked his bike to the front door, pressing the little wheelchair button on the side so that it would open automatically. He was out the door before he heard Dean's reply—not that he'd stuck around to make sure there was one.

Castiel had said his piece.

 

* * *

 

Dean didn't know what just happened. One moment he'd been annoyed and ready for Castiel to leave, then affronted that Castiel disliked Star Wars, and the next, Castiel was backing him into a wall with this _fire_ that Dean hadn't even thought he was capable of. He should have been pissed at the growling, at the fact that Castiel seemed almost to be _lecturing_ him. But instead, he was just standing there, shellshocked and numb, mind in a haze and dick half hard.

Wait—what?

No, no. No. Definitely not that. Dean's blood was just confused in its directionality, probably running too fast through its body. Some cells had just lost their way.

"What was that about?" Ash asked once the door had closed, but Dean wasn't listening. His mind was running over Castiel's words again and again.

Castiel had been trying all this time to befriend Dean and Dean had been the problem? No way. Dean wasn't biting that enchilada, and the sheer thought of it pissed him off a little, but that was a separate matter for later. And Castiel hadn't been strutting around with his overinflated intelligence, and actually thought Dean was _superior_ in some ways? Dean didn't buy that either. But Castiel _hadn't seen Star Wars_?

Oh _hell no._

Even if Castiel were Dean's mortal enemy, Dean would have sat him down to watch the Saga unfold. Every human needed to see this—and if Castiel refused, he probably wasn't human. Dean didn't dismiss that possibility yet.

However, it was honestly the show of gratitude at the end that had done Dean in. He'd been a bit irate when Castiel had begun his tirade, and was left stunned and a bit pissed after Castiel had finished (who wasn't angry after they'd practically just gotten chewed out?). Dean had been ready with a smart retort if Ash hadn't showed up to interrupt. But then Castiel had to go and say _thank you_ of all things and throw Dean for a loop.

Maybe Castiel wasn't such a douchebag after all, though Dean wasn't holding out hope.

"I gotta go," Dean muttered blankly. He shook himself out of it. "I gotta go," he said, louder this time. Dean looked about him, gathering his thoughts. "I, uh..." Dean sprang into action, speeding past Ash to the back room, where he grabbed his leather jacket and ran right back out.

"Sorry, Ash," Dean said hurriedly. "Man the store for a sec. I'll be right back."

"No worries, man," Ash replied nonchalantly, but Dean was already out the door, so fast that there was a breeze trail behind him to rustle Ash's hair.

Dean decided to take a left on instinct, hoping that he'd been fast enough to catch Castiel before he rode off into the proverbial sunset—not that this was that type of flick. Dean was merely trying to bring about world peace, one man and three (or six) movies at a time, and there was simply no time to waste.

"Castiel!" Dean yelled, probably turning eyes, but he was on a friggin' mission from God here and nothing was going to stop him. Dean was the Righteous Man, bringing Ewoks and Endor to the unenlightened people.

Dean turned the corner and caught sight of that unmistakable head of hair down the way, locking up his bike to a lamp pole. He sped in that direction, huffing along to catch Castiel in time before he went inside.

"Castiel!" Dean said again, and he panted a quick breath of relief when _finally_ , Castiel looked up. The man cocked his head to the side, brows furrowed in that endearing way of his—uh, in that... normal Castiel way of his... and gave Dean a quizzical look as he approached.

Dean slowed down with force, feet pelting the pavement heavily to create some stopping friction before he ran into the bike he'd worked so hard to fix up. Castiel probably had a lot of misunderstandings on that one, and no way had Dean done it for him, but that was a different story for a different time. What mattered right now was hope, mainly a new hope. Leia's only hope.

"Dean?" Castiel began, multiple emotions clearly vying for space in his tone. He was somewhat concerned, a little cautious, and very confused. "I'm sorry. Did I forget to sign something?" His eyes narrowed a bit. "Or if you're here to argue to me about—"

"No, Cas," Dean wheezed, catching his breath. He'd shortened the name for convenience's sake, because his lungs were having difficulty squeezing out the next syllable, but now it sort of stuck in his head. "I was just... you haven't..." Jesus, Dean needed to get back into shape.

_Try a fresh tomato sometime._

Sammy would laugh at him so hard right now.

Castiel waited patiently enough for Dean to regain his breath, and Dean forced himself to gasp in air out of sheer embarrassment alone. No manly man got this winded after sprinting only four and a half blocks in the name of our Lord, George Lucas.

"You haven't seen Star Wars," Dean blurted out when he finally got the breath to do so.

Castiel blinked at him. Dean was starting to recognize that puzzled expression on the spot—but that was a far cry away from _liking_ it. You know, because Dean didn't find Castiel attractive whatsoever. Nope.

"That's what I said, yes," Castiel murmured warily, eyeing Dean with strong suspicion. "What is your point?"

"I'm sorry I called you a devil," Dean said, though before Castiel could get any ideas, he continued. "I don't mean to say that you _aren't_ one, because we'll see that after we watch Star Wars. But for now, I don't know yet."

"We?" Cas parroted blankly.

"Well, duh," Dean said, hoping his embarrassed sheepishness didn't show. "This is possibly the most important thing you're ever gonna experience—wait, no, _definitely_ the most important thing, and I ain't leaving room for errors."

It was true that Castiel could have just watched it alone, but Dean... it was Dean's _mission_ or something like that, so he _had_ to go make sure Castiel did it right, right? Who knows? Castiel could have gone straight for the Episode I-VI order, and Dean would have cried. So he _had_ to watch it with Castiel to make sure it was done correctly.

Yep. Sure.

Castiel was still evidently skeptical, probably because Dean wasn't addressing any other parts of what Castiel had went on a tirade about back in the shop. So Dean gave him that too.

"Don't get me wrong," Dean said, "I still think you're a pretentious, grade-A dick who's all high and mighty, flaunting your intelligence and money over us lower class"—Castiel's expression darkened, and the crotch area of Dean's jeans might have tightened just a tiny bit—"but no one, no matter how bad, should go through life without seeing Star Wars—and seeing it _correctly._ "

Castiel stared at Dean. It was clear in his expression and stormy eyes that he was trying to work through many things right now. Being called the Devil a few minutes ago and then having the general characterization of douchebaggery reaffirmed just now was not doing wonders for his mood, or his perception of the state of their relationship: it was in shambles, and it didn't seem likely to be fixed soon. Nor did Dean seem to want to fix it, and Castiel had all but given up after that speech back there. That had been his two cents.

Yet here Dean was, in the same breath of air, also offering to watch a movie with Castiel, a movie he so clearly loved with a man he so clearly disliked.

Castiel had a feeling he would never understand Dean.

"I... I should go," Castiel said at last, glancing at the building they were standing in front of. "I'm already late."

Yep. Dean was sure Castiel wasn't human now.

But Castiel didn't move. His eyes met Dean's, and they stared at each other for what felt like whole minutes, Dean watching as Castiel figured things out in his head.

Castiel was still highly unsure, but he viewed it as a chance to help set the record straight, if nothing else. He wasn't a pretentious douchebag, and he was only smart in a few select categories, and once and for all, he didn't _flaunt_ his intelligence. Castiel was tired of Dean not giving him any opportunity to prove himself—not that he saw the worth in proving himself to someone who was so clearly biased against him regardless of whatever he said—but this was for Castiel himself. He didn't have much hope of fixing things, and wasn't even sure if he wanted to fix things because it was so infuriating every time, but he would feel infinite regret if he knew he hadn't given it his best shot. If nothing else, by Castiel's own brand of Christianity, he was being a terrible Christian if he gave up now, right at this golden window.

"How about tomorrow?" Castiel finally asked, sounding very tentative on his decision.

"Sunday?" Dean asked, surprise coloring his tone at the fact that Castiel had changed his mind. There was some (new) hope for humanity after all. Too bad that it was Sunday, though.

"I... I can't," Dean apologized. "That's the day I save for Sam."

Castiel nodded and shifted his messenger bag, wordlessly taking a step toward the building. So Dean had a girlfriend named Sam. Of course he had a girlfriend. Castiel didn't know why he was feeling a tinge of disappointment right now. Dean wasn't any more or less tolerable with or without a girl hanging off his arm. Maybe it was a miracle he only had one girlfriend—that Castiel had heard of so far. But definitely, Castiel wasn't _jealous_ or anything. Of course he wasn't. He just needed to go right now and get away from this situation, away from thoughts of Dean and Sam together, doing god knows what with those thick, dexterous fingers and lean, tight arms...

"How about Monday?" Dean blurted out, making Castiel pause, crashing out of his visual imagery. He turned around after a moment and regarded Dean, his chest tightening in very stupid and unwanted ways.

"... Sure," Castiel finally replied. He'd have to change around his schedule a bit, but he could work it out. Plus, this offer eased his heart's tension a little bit, and though he didn't want to overanalyze what that meant (it was probably irritation and heart burn from popping a vein somewhere), he did want the tension to keep on easing.

"Is eight all right?" Castiel asked.

"Uh... how about earlier? If we're gonna watch all three episodes, we need more time."

Castiel blinked at Dean. Was Star Wars a show? Had he misinterpreted it this whole time? He decided to refrain from asking, though, for fear that Dean would get incensed and offended once again at Castiel's ignorance. It was best to leave that alone.

"Six, then?" Castiel asked, and his heartbeat quickened when he actually got a smile out of Dean.

"Perfect."

"I'll text you the address to my apartment," Castiel offered, "unless... you'd rather do it elsewhere?"

"No, your house is fine," Dean said, probably a bit too quickly. Of course Castiel had an apartment. Rich dick probably had a mansion apartment (did those exist?). But Dean wasn't going to let his own dislike of arrogant pricks stop him from having a good night watching Star Wars on a giant flatscreen in the basement rec room of some four story Victorian Era shindig. He was pretty curious as to what kind of sweet pad Castiel had, and though it'd probably make him jealous and just a bit annoyed, seeing Star Wars in hi-def was so worth it.

"Great," Castiel said with a nod. "I'll... see you Monday, then."

"Cool," Dean replied, hands in his jeans pockets and suddenly feeling very weird for chasing Castiel all the way over here just to establish a movie date—uh, decidedly _not_ a date. A movie thing. A night. With another dude who was very _not_ hot.

Dean needed to get back to work.

He nodded awkwardly at Castiel, who nodded awkwardly back, and then half waved before taking several steps toward the building. Dean waved back.

"Good bye, Dean," Castiel murmured.

"See ya, Cas."

And then Dean was off back to the shop. He swore he could feel Castiel's eyes boring into his back all the way until he turned the corner, but he never turned around to check.

 

* * *

 

Cas.

Castiel wasn't sure how he felt about that nickname. It was so... unique to Dean. Everyone else either called him by his full name or "Cassy," which was a nickname he disliked. But "Cas," especially on Dean's tongue, sounded so... well, it sent shivers tumbling down Castiel's spine, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that yet. He was _pretty_ sure he didn't like it. Maybe?

Castiel walked in the building and to the door on the left, entering the animal shelter where he volunteered on Saturdays and Wednesdays. As he was placing his bag in one of the cubby holes on the wall, Charlie came bounding up.

"You know Dean?" she asked, both surprised and, for some reason, a little excited.

Castiel finished hanging up his coat then turned toward her, cocking his head to the side. "Yes. He and I have to do a project together for social psychology. How do you know him?"

"He and I game together sometimes. We have a guild, though we haven't gathered in a while. Midterms and all." Charlie shrugged and Castiel blinked at her, unsure what she meant by "guild." Was that some sort of old-fashioned club? Or more of a protective economic union, like the merchants' guilds of old? Somehow, Castiel couldn't quite imagine Dean being a part of that.

"Anyway," Charlie said, with that dangerous little twinkle in her eye, as if she saw something Castiel didn't, "you should come next time we meet."

Uh.

"Thank you for your offer, but..." Castiel forced a smile, which came across as more of a wry grimace. "I don't think Dean would appreciate that. He has a very low opinion of me."

Charlie swatted Castiel playfully on the arm. "Nonsense. I saw the two of you out there through the window," she said. "What were you guys talking about?"

"Star Wars," Castiel replied sheepishly. "I've never seen it, so he's coming over on Monday to watch it with me." Huh, when Castiel put it that way, it certainly did seem like Dean liked him. Then again, Castiel was actually familiar with the nuances of the circumstances, so he knew just how wrong that impression was.

"Not that he wants to," Castiel blurted out before Charlie got any ideas. "He just said that although... although he dislikes me very much, no amount of dislike can cancel out Star Wars, and him ensuring that I watch it 'correctly.'"

Charlie stared evenly at Castiel, her expression sort of similar to Dean's "you gotta be kidding me" look.

"Oh, Dean totally likes you. Tons." She was grinning.

Castiel blinked. Had Charlie not caught the part where Castiel had said Dean disliked him _very much_?

Castiel looked at Charlie as if her hair had suddenly turned pitch black. Had she even been watching the same conversation? Dean had been calling Castiel rude names and everything. Albeit, there was that one moment of staring, though Castiel had probably stretched out the time in his head to far longer than it was. And there was also the proximity thing. Castiel often made the mistake of standing too close to people (social boundaries were very hard to discern), and though most people politely tended to step back or move themselves to create the correct amount of socially acceptable space between them, Dean had... well, Dean had stayed rooted to the spot and allowed it to happen. Every time. But maybe Castiel was reading too much into things, his own memory colored by what Charlie had said (and perhaps a little hope of his own? Because those were some gorgeous arms—arms that belonged to someone very irritating, of course).

But reality came crashing back down when Castiel remembered that once again, Dean had called him the Devil before going on to enumerate a whole list of traits he disliked about Castiel. No amount of standing or staring, imagined or not, could cancel out the truth of Dean's words.

Charlie was wrong.

"Forgive me, Charlie. I value your opinion, but I think you're mistaken on this count," Castiel murmured resolutely, shaking his head. Charlie frowned. But before she could say anything, Castiel dodged past her, changing the subject.

"Anyway, how has Bones been?" he asked blandly, squatting down by his kennel. He barked happily at Castiel, wagging his adorable golden tail. Castiel smiled at him, but Charlie wasn't buying it.

"I'm not wrong," Charlie said, pursing her lips.

"I guess we must agree to disagree, then," Castiel replied, glancing up at Charlie.

"Uh huh," Charlie said flatly, giving Castiel the most skeptical look.

Castiel didn't reply. He had nothing to say. Charlie was convinced of something that Castiel just couldn't see. And though he wished that he and Dean did have some sort of better relationship than this odd frenmity thing, he was realistic and logical, and reason dictated (with lots of spoken evidence from the man himself) that Dean hated Castiel. And honestly, Castiel wasn't feeling too amicable toward Dean either at the moment.

Eventually, Charlie sighed and shook her head. Some people just couldn't see the things that were right in front of their noses, she lamented. She had no idea how Castiel felt about Dean, but Castiel was _so_ Dean's type, whether Dean knew it just yet or not.

... Although Dean could _learn_ to know.

Huh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you guys have noticed by now that the chapters have been highly variant in length. I'm trying to split them up thematically, and some arcs are just longer than others. I hope that isn't too bothersome. ;w;


	4. Diner and a Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes to meet his "girlfriend" at the diner, or so Castiel thinks. And then there is a dinner movie not-a-date to rival the ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This brotherhood gives me so many feels all the damn time. And yeah, the chapter title is spelled correctly.

As usual, Sam was the first one to the diner on Sunday for brunch. It was closer to Bobby's place than it was to the campus, but Dean had a bike whereas Sam walked, so Dean had no excuse. (His baby was safe in Bobby's garage.) Dean was running late because he'd stopped by the library first in order to pick up episodes IV-VI on blu-ray, since he figured that was what Castiel would have. Dean only owned them on VHS.

Dean locked his bike outside the diner with great care. It was his second baby, also a [Chevy](http://image.rakuten.co.jp/voldy/cabinet/02783523/img60415033.jpg) (Dean was a Chevy man through and through). It was imported from Japan and kept at near mint condition ever since Dean had gotten it years ago from a yard sale.

Dean sauntered in and waved to Sammy, who was sitting at their regular booth on the left side. Dean slid in and reached over, mussing Sam's hair and earning a scowl from him in return. God, Dean missed this kid.

"How's my little Sammy doing?" Dean asked with a grin, timing his question just as Amelia, their regular waitress, walked by. Dean knew Sam thought she was hot.

"I'm not _twelve_ , Dean," Sam said exasperatedly, color flooding his cheeks when Amelia chuckled. She was too old for Sam, in her twenties when Sam was still in high school, but Dean would do his brotherly duty and embarrass Sam anyway whenever he could.

Amelia soon brought them their regular plates without them having to order, as Sam and Dean caught up on each other's weeks. Sam was now president of the math club (what a nerd), though he was still girlfriendless as usual. Dean, too, was girlfriendless as usual, though he was also not president of a single damn thing, so Sam had at least one leg up.

"Anyway," Sam said, taking a sip of his OJ, "the good news is that at the very least we're gonna make it to semis this year." He was talking about mock trial, of course.

"Dude, that's awesome," Dean said, pride in his eyes. "Is this a thing the, uh... the public can come see?" Dean asked, a bit more tentatively. "You know, just curious."

Sam blinked at Dean. "You wanna come watch mock trial?"

"Pah," Dean huffed, waving it off. "I mean, I _am_ a part of the public, and you know, if I had a day free and wasn't doing anything anyway, I mean I might as well just... you know..." Dean shrugged, looking away, suddenly very interested in his fries.

Sam grinned. "That'd be awesome," he said, and Dean's shoulders relaxed just a hair. "It's in St. Louis, though," Sam informed awkwardly, "so that's... not exactly close."

Dean was unfazed. It wasn't often he got to see Sammy in action, and if it meant he had to skip classes for a few days and take some time off work, it'd still be worth it. He was definitely gonna go.

"No problem," Dean said with ease, shrugging. "May be a bit of a hike, but nothing I haven't driven before." Dean looked up at Sam, his tone getting a bit gruff. "Now does this mean you need like, transportation money or something? Or is the school covering the bus for you guys to get there?"

Sam tensed and Dean already knew the answer. He also knew that Sam would try to weasel his way out of it.

"It's nothing much," Sam said, and Dean was thankful Sam never outright _lied_ , but this was close. He was always like this with money. "I can cover it with my own savings," Sam assured.

"The hell you are," Dean said, his tone weighty with finality. He was already pulling out his wallet. "How much you need?"

"Dean—"

"How much, Sam?"

A moment of silence passed between them before Sam sighed, conceding the point to Dean. "Fifty dollars," Sam said quietly, looking down at the table. "Look, Dean—"

But his words were cut off by five crisp tens falling on the table in front of him.

Sam swallowed.

They sat there in silence for a bit as Dean repocketed his wallet. Sam finally reached out and took the money, folding it carefully and placing it in the pocket of his jeans.

"Thanks," he murmured. Dean just nodded in reply.

Sam knew better than to say more, because then it would make this gruff "pseudo father figure" thing all too real for Dean. So instead, Sam cleared his throat and said, "Text me if you end up going? I might have some free time, and it'd be nice to explore St. Louis together."

Dean visibly relaxed when he realized Sam would say no more on the matter of money. "Will do," he said with a nod, tossing another fry into his mouth. His eyes scanned over Sam's salad thoughtfully, and then, out of nowhere, Dean picked up his fork and reached out, spearing a small sliver of tomato on the edge of the plate.

Sam was stunned. He stayed quiet and watched as Dean eyed the particle on his fork, almost as if trying to have a telepathic conversation with it, sizing it up, man to... tomato. It was a surreal experience that was made only more unbelievable when Dean finally brought it to his mouth and swallowed. There had even been a chew or two in there, though Sam might have just imagined that.

After a moment of staring at his empty fork, brows furrowed, Dean looked up to notice Sam staring at him.

"What?" Dean said defensively, sniffling indignantly and looking away. "Was just curious," he muttered under his breath. Sam began to laugh.

"Oh my god," Sam said, practically chortling now. He wiped a tear from his eye, which only deepened Dean's scowl. "I never thought I'd see this day."

"Shut up," Dean growled, chomping down on four fries at once just to balance out his momentary 'indiscretion.'

"What happened, huh?" Sam asked, a shit-eating grin on his face. "Trying to impress Castiel now? Is that it?"

Dean blushed. " _Shut up_ ," he said darkly, glaring at Sam. "This is _not_ about that arrogant prick. I was just curious, that's all." Dean turned his eyes to another slice of tomato on Sam's salad.

"Doesn't _taste_ like fruit," Dean muttered stubbornly, miffed.

"Uh huh..." Sam said, his grin not faltering once. "So how are things going with Castiel anyway?" He ate the slice of tomato Dean was staring at and his grin widened when Dean shuddered and looked away, returning to his double bacon cheeseburger.

"Still a pretentious know-it-all, like always," Dean grumbled, talking through a mouthful. "Professor Moseley's not giving me an inch with this whole individual project thing, though, so we're gonna have to work it out at some point."

"Things that bad?" Sam said, smile faltering as concern seeped into his tone. It was all fun and games until Dean was having serious trouble.

Dean shrugged. "Nah. I mean, he's a dick and he yelled at me once"—and that was fucking _hot_ —"but like, it's not... I don't know."

"He yelled at you?" Sam asked, brows raising. "Jesus."

Dean shook his head. "It wasn't yelling, exactly. It was more like distant rumbling thunder, all dark and growly and low, like how I'd imagine someone's sex voice to be, you know? And he wasn't—" Dean paused, his mind catching up to his words.

_Fuck._

Sam was staring at Dean, and Dean was staring right back, eyes wide. "Crap," he said. "I, uh... shit." Dean wiped a hand down his face. "What I meant was..."

Sam put down his fork, eyes evenly on his brother. "Dean," Sam began, "I'm not gonna judge you for anything, you know that, right? You are who you are, and you're my brother no matter what."

Dean looked away.

"Don't know what you're talking about," he muttered gruffly, heart already melting a bit from Sam's words.

"That's fine," Sam replied. "You don't have to acknowledge it either. And it's okay if you don't want to talk about it," Sam continued, "but I'm here for you if you do." Sam shrugged. "And if you don't wanna label it, that's fine too. We can just call you... egalitarian."

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat, unable to look Sammy in the eye. For a high schooler, his brother sure was a smart kid. Dean was so proud of Sammy, and so... touched by this response. He still didn't know how to reply, and his mind was still sort of fizzing out that they were even having this conversation to begin with, but all he knew was that he was infinitely grateful right now for how easy Sam was making all of this. Sam was the polar opposite of John.

"Right," Dean replied at last, his voice gruff and a bit hoarse. He cleared his throat, but the lump just wouldn't go away. Dean swallowed again and took a sip of coke, still unable to meet Sam's eyes. "I, uh... thanks, Sammy."

"Any time," Sam replied gently. Sam knew that Dean had understood what he'd said, and honestly, it'd come as barely a surprise that Dean was bisexual (maybe he was even pansexual). Despite Dean's habits and the illicit skin mags he kept lying around in secret stashes, Sam had always pegged Dean to be someone who would fall in love for the beauty of the other person's soul and personality—not that anyone who didn't want their head chewed off ever said that to Dean's face. But Sam had never been worried. He figured Dean would sort it all out one day, and he'd somehow come clean to Sam in the end.

Maybe this mysterious Castiel had something to do with it, Sam mused.

"Anyway," Sam said, taking the initiative in pushing the conversation onward, "what was Castel, uh, ranting about?"

Dean's relief at the topic change didn't slip past Sam.

"This and that," Dean replied noncommittally. "He was full of shit, though, and I didn't believe a word of it. He was pissed that I made all these assumptions and I've apparently never given him a chance to explain himself."

"Have you?" Sam asked, "Given him a chance to explain himself, I mean."

Dean shot Sam a look. "No need, Sammy. I already know his type inside out. He's probably having a nice golf-clap laugh with his brothers by the fireside about me right now, eating caviar and drinking wine."

Sam shot Dean bitchface #178, the "are you listening to yourself right now?" look.

"I don't think you're giving him enough credit, Dean," Sam said disapprovingly. "Based on what you've told me, it sounds like he's been trying and you're just not listening very well."

"Thanks but no thanks, Dr. Phil," Dean said with a glare, scarfing down on the last bite of his burger. "I know what I'm doing." Dean took two large gulps of coke before polishing off the last of his fries as well.

"Anyway, it's not like I'm avoiding Cas. We still gotta work on this thing together," Dean said. "And I'm going over to his place tomorrow night to watch Star Wars." Dean looked up at Sam, shaking his head and slapping his hand on the table. "He's never seen _Star Wars_ , Sammy. Can you believe that? What kind of a guy has never seen Star Wars?"

"Maybe he doesn't own a TV," Sam said with a shrug, though he was a little surprised. It was hard for someone to live within twenty miles of Dean and never see Star Wars. It was practically Dean's lifeblood.

"I can't imagine he doesn't have one somewhere in that mansion of his," Dean said. "I mean, I'm just guessing he lives in a mansion, but I'm pretty sure I'm right."

"Guess you'll see tomorrow, won't you?" Sam said, not taking either side of Dean's argument. He'd never met Castiel, but he knew Dean could be pretty... severe in his first impression judgments of people. And Castiel had gotten Dean to eat a piece of tomato without any meat or cheese to accompany it, so there was no way he could be _that_ bad of a person, Sam figured.

"Tell me how it goes," Sam said, forking the last piece of lettuce on his plate.

Dean nodded. "I'll let you know if there are any secret passageways."

Sam rolled his eyes but he couldn't fight back his smile.

Amelia came by to take their plates away and bring them both each a steaming slice of apple pie, on the house. Dean dug in, extolling the virtues of being a regular customer while Sam just listened with a grin, glad to know that his brother was doing okay for yet another week. He had a feeling that starting with tomorrow night at Cas's (the new nickname had not slipped by Sam's notice), Dean was going to have a pretty interesting week—and Castiel was going to be a huge part of it, if the Castiel-centric conversations of these past few weeks were anything to go by.

It was just a hunch, of course, but Sam couldn't wait to see how it played out.

 

* * *

 

Monday night, 6PM sharp, Dean found himself standing in front of a white nondescript door, nothing to differentiate it from the rest but the number 101 nailed to the front in tasteful gold lettering. Castiel lived in a pretty decent apartment complex, with warm lighting and carpeted hallways, but it was an apartment complex nevertheless. No security guard, even. Dean had merely buzzed Castiel's name on the directory and then the door unlocked, letting Dean in to search the maze of hallways for Castiel's door.

It was pretty... normal, to be honest. No secret passageways then, Dean lamented, though the fact that Castiel lived in an apartment at all, rather than a dorm, was already a sign of his riches. Dean could never afford even a square foot of this place—nor would he want to. Money was better spent elsewhere, like on Sammy and pie.

Dean rapped sharply on Castiel's door, banging out Ringo's only [drum solo](http://youtu.be/7a_8F6gflxQ?t=20s) with both hands until he heard the lock twist from the other side. The door swung open to reveal Cas, but not in any way that Dean expected.

Castiel's hair was extra messy, giving Dean an irrational urge to run his fingers through it and check to see if it really was as soft as it looked. His cheeks were flushed, lips extra chapped. Castiel looked a bit... haphazard, like he'd been rushing around before Dean had arrived. There was a glob of white frosting on his ear, and Dean had to clench his hand into a fist to stop himself from reaching out to nab it with his finger. So many sudden fucking _terrible_ temptations.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said, breath short.

"Uh... Did I mess up on the time?" Dean asked, not sure what was going on before Castiel had opened the door (and not sure if he wanted to know either, though his mind was providing stupid unhelpful images. Frosting was _so_ kinky).

"No, no. Please come in," Castiel replied, stepping aside. He reached up and wiped at his ear with his thumb and forefinger. Dean's eyes followed Castiel's hand every step of the way until the frosting was lost in Castiel's mouth, his lips puckered around the digit, sucking it clean.

Dean had to look away.

"I'm sorry for my... appearance," Castiel said as he closed the door behind Dean, oblivious to Dean's uncomfortable shifting. "It's been a long day." Dean was starting to suspect it'd be a long night, too, if his own body kept having stupid-ass reactions like that to mundane shit Castiel did.

Dean began to toe off his shoes, sniffing the air. "Is something burning?" he said, distracting himself from the image replaying in his head of Castiel sucking at his finger.

"Not anymore," Castiel replied with an exasperated sigh. "Here is the coat closet," he said, opening the small door to Dean's right. "The living room's just past the painting, if you want to get situated."

Dean hung up his jacket, but being Dean, he also didn't follow Castiel's subtle suggestion to go to the living room and instead followed Castiel into the kitchen. His nose was too curious.

"Oh, man," Dean said, eyeing the mess in the sink. "Dude, were you making cupcakes?"

Castiel turned around and gave Dean a flat glare, as if challenging him to say more. "It was an attempt," Castiel said stiffly. "My brother Gabriel is the baker of the family, and clearly that gift has not extended to me."

Dean glanced at the burnt crusting on the cupcake pans and the splashes of frosting along the counter. "Well, at least you've got the smarts," Dean said, cleverly avoiding any mention of baking. "And I... appreciate the effort." Dean coughed. "If it was, uh, you know, for me."

"Who's egotistical now?" Castiel commented, but before Dean could reply, frown etched on his lips, Castiel moved on. "Yes, they were for you, among others like my neighbors. I will not have you hate me further for being a poor host."

"Hate's a strong word—"

"Dislike, disdain, whatever you want," Castiel said, not wanting to hear it. "Anyway, I gave up on that and made these instead." Castiel handed a plate to Dean, piled high with... sandwiches?

"Don't you dare say a word," Castiel warned, suspiciously eyeing the twitch of Dean's lips. "They're the only things I know how to make, all right?"

Dean couldn't help it. He smirked, raising one eyebrow. "Really?" he said. "Sandwiches? You only know how to make sandwiches?" It was a weird skill, but also kinda cute—you know, in an objective sense, because everyone would find that cute, not just Dean.

Right?

"My talents lie elsewhere," Castiel said, scowling. "Now are we going to watch movies or what?"

Dean laughed. For the first time in Castiel's presence, Dean laughed. It was just a bit too surreal, being in this small little modest apartment where Dean had been expecting a mansion, holding on to a plate of sandwiches because that was all that Castiel knew how to make—but at least he'd _tried_ , even though he'd attempted to make cupcakes first. Castiel the Great and Arrogant, baking friggin' _cupcakes_. And he wasn't wearing a tie or an argyle sweater or anything either, but rather just plain jeans and an oversized sweater, super fuzzy and soft looking with a few fall-colored leaves embroidered along the edge.

It was all just too... unbelievable.

Dean didn't know if it was hysterics or something, but he was practically guffawing, and Castiel's confused little frown only made his laughter worse.

"Oh god," Dean said through gasping breaths, "you are just too much."

"So I've been told," Castiel muttered darkly, hoping the soft yellow lighting hid his blush. Dean's laugh was certainly... attractive, like the rest of him. It made his whole face light up, dimples on his cheeks and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Dean was like the sun, and he was so bright it almost hurt to look. Gosh, if looks were everything, Castiel might have developed a crush on Dean long ago.

Luckily, they weren't.

Castiel reached out and spun Dean around, pushing him out of the kitchen and into the living room.

"All right, all right, I'm going," Dean said, smile still on his face. This wasn't how he'd expected to find things, walking through that door. Maybe it was all just a dream and he'd yet to wake up on Monday morning.

Dean walked into the little living room/dining room combo, placing the plate of sandwiches on the coffee table, where a pitcher of water and glasses were already laid out. Castiel didn't have a plasma flatscreen, but rather a modest little boxy TV set, the type that still had a pair of V antennas at the top and a VCR at the bottom, below the buttons and honest to god _knobs_. Dean had brought his VHS tapes just in case, but wow, he hadn't expected he'd actually need to use them.

Dean sat down on one end of the couch and Castiel took his seat at the other, both of them clearly leaving a lot of space in between. A small awkward silence ensued, and Castiel ended up being the one to break it.

"I never got a chance to thank you properly for my bicycle," he began quietly, looking at Dean. "I mean, I did say a few words back at the shop, but that was before I'd had a chance to examine your repairs. It's... stunning, what you've done."

Dean hadn't expected that. Castiel was just full of surprises today.

Dean shrugged. "Well, you know, all in a day's work."

"But it's _not_ ," Castiel insisted, sitting up straighter and leaning in earnestly. "Ash told me you were there working on it in the morning before he'd come in. And he said Shi... Shem... the parts for my bicycle were pretty special and expensive, so you must have—"

"It's nothing," Dean said, waving it off with an agitated blush. He was uncomfortable with the attention, and the way Castiel was saying this shit made his gratitude sound so _earnest_. Sheesh, did this guy not find it weird to say things like that?

"Really, it's nothing," Dean reassured, looking down at his lap. "My bike's Chevy, but it's Japanese made, so it happens to run on Shimano too. It was no biggie using spares I had lying around. We get sample shipments for new gears and chains and stuff all the time, anyway." Dean shrugged.

"Plus, your bike is like, _legendary_ ," Dean continued, "so it would have just felt... _wrong_ to let it go under my care without bringing it back to top shape, you know?" He sniffed. "I wouldn't do it for _you_ ," Dean grumbled. "That's why I did it overnight, to get you out of my hair faster."

Castiel had guessed that last part. He knew that Dean still disliked him very much, and hadn't suspected for one moment that Dean had cared for the bike because of its owner. But nevertheless, it still remained that Dean had done it in the first place, and that was already huge in Castiel's book.

"Well, whatever the reason," Castiel said quietly, "I'm very thankful. Are you sure you don't want me to pay for parts?"

"No need. As I said, we get a lot of them for free anyway." Dean rubbed at his nose and sat up a bit, still not looking at Castiel and wishing his damn cheeks would stop being so red. "You should take care of her, though," he said gruffly.

"Who?" Castiel's brows furrowed. When did the subject change to a woman?

"Your bike, idiot," Dean said crossly. "She's gorgeous and easily worth two grand. After what I did, it's probably closer to three." Dean licked his lips. "She's meant for the long haul, built to last, but not if you keep treating her like crap."

"Okay. I can do that."

"No, you can't," Dean decided, and Castiel began to feel antagonized again, his body's sympathetic nervous system gearing up with its fight or flight response. Castiel frowned, ready to argue or call Dean out on being purposefully difficult or offensive yet again, but before he could get a word in edgewise, Dean was talking again.

"You can't because you don't know how to," Dean said, voice steely with conviction. He rolled his bottom lip under his teeth, looking indecisive. After a moment, he finally reached a conclusion.

"But I do," he said, a bit more quietly than before. "So uh, you know, in the future, you bring her to me, okay?" he said, rubbing at his nose and still avoiding Castiel's gaze. "If I don't have the parts in the shop, you can pay for it. This isn't about you; it's about _her_ , and there ain't no way I'm gonna let you get her so trashed again, you got me?"

"Dean..."

"Cas, this ain't up for discussion."

Castiel blinked at Dean for a moment before finally nodding. "Okay," he said, a bit lost on the proceedings but feeling that overall, this was coming out well. Dean was offering to fix Castiel's bicycle in the future, despite their differences, so that had to mean something positive, right?

Dean nodded with satisfaction. Now eager to move on from this uncomfortable subject, Dean reached into his bag and brought out episodes IV through VI, placing them on the table beside the sandwiches.

"So, uh... Might as well get started," he said, passing the first one to Castiel to put into his VCR.

Castiel stared down at the tape in his hands, brows furrowed. "Dean, you gave me the wrong one," he said, holding it back out. "This is episode four."

"Nope," Dean said, waving it off. "I definitely gave you the right one. Four's where it all begins." He didn't explain further, though, and nodded to reaffirm when Castiel continued to stare, unmoving. This just wasn't something you _told_ someone, after all. They had to experience the sequence in order to understand. 4, 5, 6, 1, 2, 3, and then 6 again, because it was damn good, and there was no way they were ending on _Episode III_ , of all things.

Eventually, Castiel got up with a sigh, deciding that Dean would continue to be difficult and stubbornly silent, even if pushed. Maybe Dean was the one who enjoyed lording knowledge over Castiel, rather than the other way around.

He popped in the tape and turned on the TV, pausing the movie on the old FBI warnings. Castiel didn't watch much on here, save for old documentaries he sometimes checked out of the library. It felt a bit odd to be turning the TV on with someone else in the room, to be honest.

Castiel turned off the lights before returning to his seat. He took a light blanket out from underneath the side table and tossed it in Dean's direction. "In case you get cold," Castiel explained. Dean nodded but left the blanket untouched between them.

Castiel curled his legs up onto the couch and then pressed play. He settled back to find a comfortable position as the warnings continued.

"Prepare for your life to be changed forever," Dean said, voice lowered almost in reverence. Even Castiel couldn't deny the twinge of anticipation in his gut. Dean sure knew how to talk something up.

"I expect my money back if it isn't," Castiel said lightly in return, glancing over at Dean in the dim lighting. Dean blinked at him and then laughed, his face brightening once again. Castiel was glad that Dean couldn't see his blush in the darkness. Dean really was quite gorgeous.

"Deal," Dean said, grinning at Cas. "Now shh. It's about to start."

They settled back as the famous opening words filled the screen: _A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away_...

Castiel jumped when the trumpets suddenly came in, and Dean was trying really hard to fight down his snickering. He'd seen that reaction coming from parsecs away, though he hadn't expected to find the action so... endearing. Nor did he expect that he'd spend the rest of the opening crawl just watching Castiel, who was studying the scrolling words as if reading a textbook, memorizing the facts with that trademark concentrated frown of his. It was kinda cute, actually.

Dean returned his eyes to the screen as the Imperial Star Destroyer came into view, but soon found them drifting back to Castiel. Try as he might, he was honestly finding watching Cas far more interesting than watching Leia get handled by stormtroopers. Castiel was reacting to everything so openly, the expressions flittering across his face like a movie unto themselves. Dean was enraptured.

Dean figured that this was only because he'd seen "A New Hope" a bajillion times already, so much so that he could quote the whole thing with Sam. Plus, it was such a rare opportunity to observe someone watching the legendary saga for the first time that no wonder Dean was fixated. It had nothing to do with _Castiel_. Of course not.

At some point around Luke's whiny bitching about chores (Dean thought Luke had _nothing_ on Han), Dean idly reached over and unfolded the blanket. Castiel was too lost in the odd antics of C-3PO and R2D2 to notice the rustling—that was, until he felt something hitting his thigh. Castiel looked down briefly and blinked at the blanket on his lap. He followed it to Dean's lap, and then his eyes trailed up to Dean—who was studiously looking away, gaze fixated at the screen.

Castiel blushed, his heart palpitating far too fast for its own good health. But he accepted the blanket, subtly shifting closer to Dean so that it wouldn't be such a stretch to share the blanket between them. There were a few other blankets under the side table, but they were all but forgotten.

Castiel settled down again and returned his attention to the screen. And only when Dean was pretty sure Castiel was wrapped back into the action did he dare chance another glance at him.

By the time the movie was done, Castiel's knee was a comforting weight poking into Dean's thigh, Cas's legs still curled beneath him. Dean had one arm thrown up on the back of the couch, draped suspiciously close to Castiel's shoulders.

Castiel turned to look at Dean, his eyes almost glowing in the soft light still emitting from the TV.

"I'll admit it was pretty good," he murmured, voice soft and low, rumbling in just the right way to raise hairs on the nape of Dean's neck. He was smiling, and Dean wanted to kiss that smile right off his lips—and whoa, haha, where the fuck did that come from?

Dean cleared his throat and looked away, mentally shaking himself out of that absurd train of thought. "Pretty good?" Dean scoffed, blushing wildly and hoping he sounded casual enough. Christ, can't his heart just slow the fuck down for a sec? "Just wait until you watch the next two, [Roeper](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Roeper)," Dean said. "You'll be struck silent in your seat."

"Promises, promises," Castiel murmured, and that little impish smile of his, complete with the annoyingly cute nose wrinkle and everything, was all too much for Dean. He had to move.

Dean stood up probably a bit faster than necessary, going over to pop the tape out of the VCR before putting it back in its sleeve. His stomach grumbled, saving him from the need to produce any more awkward dialogue as he plopped back down on the couch, squished as much toward the armrest as possible. Needing something to occupy his hands, he reached for a sandwich on the otherwise untouched plate.

"Never got a chance to try these," Dean commented idly, holding the sandwich briefly in Castiel's direction. Was it his imagination, or had Castiel moved away a little bit back to the other side? His eyes had stopped doing that glowy thing, but that was probably because the TV wasn't all lit up anymore either.

Well, whatever it was, imagination or not, it was probably for the better.

Dean looked over the sandwich, acutely aware of Castiel's eyes on him, probably watching for a reaction to his handiwork. Well, it was a gorgeous sandwich, so Castiel probably had nothing to worry about. Unlike his cupcake fiasco, the sandwich looked like, well, a sandwich, which was already a good sign. Dean could see the juicy pieces of turkey between thick slices of rye, oozing with mustard and mayo. There were large leaves of lettuce, vibrant green and fresh, hiding slices of cheese that were definitely not Kraft. The corners of Dean's lips quirked up a bit when he spied the tell-tale red of tomato slices hidden in the mix. Cute.

Dean glanced at Castiel and then took a bite, stomach grumbling excitedly. As soon as the sandwich touched his tongue, he closed his eyes, ready to savor. Dean took his first chew, and _mmm_...

Wait.

Hold up.

Dean froze, opening his eyes and staring down the _abomination_ in his hand. He gave one more experimental chew before frowning, fighting the urge to spit the whole mess back out. But Castiel was still staring, and Dean didn't want to start World War III over a sandwich, so he forced his face into a neutral expression, continuing to chew as his eyes watered up.

Fuck, was that fresh garlic? Did he honestly just bite into a whole clove of garlic in the middle of a freakin' sandwich? And then a stab of extremely strong horseradish attacked Dean and he almost choked, nostrils flaring. It was only mildly helped by the sweet relish that accompanied the next bite, along with some odd taste that Dean did _not_ want to ask about. Christ, he deserved an award for his perseverance.

At long last, Dean swallowed, feeling like he'd just lost ten years of his life. Biting down on that sandwich had been worse than a deal with a demon. He sniffled and set the sandwich back down on the edge of the plate, not even sure what he could say to Castiel. Luckily, he didn't need to.

"You don't like it," Castiel said, tone perfectly neutral as if he were merely observing. His expression was inscrutable.

Dean was fucking wiping tears from his eyes, so yeah, he didn't like it. These weren't exactly tears of joy. Dean didn't even know how to be polite on this one. Well, fuck it. Politeness was one thing, but this sandwich was just something else. He had to stop Castiel before he killed someone.

"What the hell was that?" Dean finally forced out, voice hoarse. Shit, his vocal cords had probably been burned away. "I've had some questionable stuff at gas stations all over the country, but shit, Cas..." Dean trailed off, nothing else to say.

Castiel looked away. He breathed out a little sigh after a moment of prolonged silence. "I never learned how to cook," Castiel said, his tone clipped and unreadable.

Dean huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "You know," he said sarcastically, "having a personal family chef will do that to ya." He was just taking a stab in the dark, of course, but it made too much sense. Plus, Dean had been forgetting throughout the night that he was dealing with Castiel friggin' Novak here, the cocky, old money bastard who got off on his own intelligence, and this was his chance to remind himself of the _truth_. Castiel couldn't do his magical bewitching twinkly-eye shit anymore. Dean was on to him.

"It wasn't as if I had one by choice," Castiel said after a moment, confirming what Dean had said. Castiel had no idea how Dean had figured it out, but it wasn't as if he was going to lie. "All of us had our own chefs growing up," Castiel grumbled. "And Rose was great, but I didn't exactly _ask_ for her."

Dean huffed out a doubtful puff of air. "Right," he said, mood suddenly sour. What started out as a small little jab was suddenly getting serious. "Poor little Castiel, forced to grow up with friggin' butlers and chefs and more money than he knew what to do with," Dean said bitterly. "Boo hoo."

Castiel's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Don't pretend like you know anything about my life, Winchester," he hissed, almost like an offended cat. "At least you had a mother who was actually _present_ , who probably taught you how to cook. I would have given _anything_ for that."

Dean froze.

Oh fucking _hell_ no.

Dean was glad he wasn't holding the sandwich anymore, otherwise it would have been squished in his grip, its contents oozing everywhere and making a mess—though honestly, Castiel fucking deserved to clean that shit up after what he'd just said.

"My mother's dead, you asshole," Dean spat out, standing up and shouldering his bag. He grabbed the three VHS tapes and stuffed it back into the sack, because he sure as hell wasn't gonna leave these babies with _Castiel_. "She never fucking got a chance to teach me anything because she died when I was _four_." Dean stepped around the table and past Castiel, into the hallway. He could hear Castiel scrambling up, but he didn't turn around.

Dean slipped into his shoes and grabbed his jacket out of the closet, not bothering to stop and put it on. He could do that later, once he was out of this dick's house.

"Dean—"

"Shut it, Cas." Dean flexed his fingers. "I haven't punched anyone since high school, but that doesn't mean I'm out of practice." Dean whipped open the door and stepped through, not bothering to look behind him. "I hope you're fucking happy," he spat. "I taught myself how to cook."

Then Dean slammed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking garlic. This is why we can't have nice things. (Although I, for one, love garlic with almost everything, including sandwiches. So maybe Dean just has bad taste hahaha.)


	5. Blue Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean learns that the world doesn't revolve around him. And it doesn't revolve around Sammy either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from a song with very fitting lyrics for Dean falling in love, in my opinion. It's ["Blue Thunder"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFkG6vD2nxk) by Galaxie 500. As I said, the [lyrics](https://www.google.com/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&ion=1&espv=2&es_th=1&ie=UTF-8#safe=off&q=blue%20thunder%20lyrics) are _really_ good for Dean falling in love, so check it out!

Dean was fucking exhausted. He glanced at the clock and sighed when he saw it was 7AM. Way too early for a Tuesday morning, when he usually slept in all the way until engineering at 11. Dean wiped a hand over his face and fell back into bed, wishing today could just pass him by without him needing to step a single foot outside. He had a bitch of headache, and his tongue felt like sandpapery cotton—and if that wasn't the weirdest fucking feeling, Dean didn't know what was.

Dean felt like he'd died a hundred times over.

It was all Castiel's fault. Castiel with his big fucking mouth, saying things he should have thought twice about. It was because of him that Dean had had nightmares—if you could call memories of his mother that. They'd haunted him throughout the night, giving him headaches and chest pains. Every time he'd woken up to find himself back in this stupid motherless reality, it had been yet another stab to the heart. At one point, Dean had blinked and rolled over, disoriented, only to find wet smears on his pillow. He'd been fucking crying. Because of Castiel.

That son of a _bitch_.

Dean punched his pillow until it was fluffy again and snuggled back down, hoping to find some comfort that would lull him back to sleep. But the birds were annoyingly loud with their cheerful song outside his window, and he had to wonder why on earth Snow White never wanted to gank 'em and be done with it. And despite forecasts of rain and thunder, it was so fucking _sunny_ outside that Dean could almost hear heavenly harps strumming as the clouds parted to reveal God or some shit like that. Dean was already 300% done with today.

Eventually, he gave up on sleep. Castiel Novak was conspiring with the world to give him a bad Tuesday, and Dean just had to deal with it. That didn't mean he wasn't going to fight back, though.

Stumbling around his room because everything was too damn bright, Dean finally found a clean cup for water and his bottle of ibuprofen. He shouldn't have chugged so much whiskey last night, but such were both the ups and downs of being a sophomore at 21. Dean bet fucking _Castiel_ didn't understand the need to take time off for family stuff. Ugh. Dean hated him so much.

As much as Dean wanted just to roll around and pray for the throbbing to go away, he knew adrenaline helped. It hurt like a bitch to move and be out in the sunlight, but Dean knew his future self would appreciate it. Dean changed slowly into running clothes and went for a refreshing morning jog (which began as a wobbling stumble). He hoped it, and the two cups of coffee he picked up from the dining hall on the way back, would energize him enough for what he needed to do today: give Castiel Novak a taste of his own medicine.

It was eight by the time Dean jumped in the shower, "Heat of the Moment" playing from his iPhone from where it lay on the edge of the sink (thanks but no thanks, Sam, for getting rid of Dean's Nokia brick). The water that sprayed on his back was just this side of freezing, which he'd meant as another shock to his sluggish and hungover system—and it worked. By the time Dean stepped out, he was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to give Cas hell.

But first, he had other things to take care of.

As Dean brushed his teeth, his phone pinged with a text message. He used his free hand to check, pausing the music. It was from Sam.

_Dean, I swear to god, if you don't let me know what's going on, I am going to skip school today and take the bus all the way over there to check on you myself._

What? Dean's brush hung slack in his mouth as he scrolled backward through the whole other slew of messages. In fact, there were several missed calls from Sammy, too... and one call from Dean to Sammy, 11:47PM, smack in the middle of peak drinking time. Crap.

Dean quickly spit out his toothpaste and rinsed his mouth, before dialing Sam, massaging the back of his neck with his other hand in hopes that headache #2 wouldn't develop out of stress. He had no idea what he said to Sammy last night, but none of it could have been good.

Sam answered midway through the first ring. "Dean? You okay?" he said, sounding worried sick, and it made Dean's stomach twist up in guilt.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Dean said, running his hand through his damp hair. "Just... just had a rough night, that's all." He stared at a ball of dust near the toe of his left foot. "But it's all good now."

"You sure?" Sam asked, prying like the modern day Sherlock Holmes he was practically born as. "Because last night, you sounded—"

"Whatever I said last night, you can forget it," Dean said, gritting his teeth. Then, realizing he sounded way too harsh, Dean deflated, shoulders sagging a little. "Sorry," he murmured. "I was just drunk and stupid. Star Wars didn't... go exactly as planned."

Sam snorted. He honest to god snorted. "I'll say," Sam said, with a huff of air that could almost have been a laugh. "I think I remember something like, 'I hate Cas. Fucking entitled prick with his stupid gorgeous eyes and that tight-as-fuck ass he has, swaying around like—'"

"Shut the fuck up, Sammy," Dean hissed warningly, blushing wildly. That definitely sounded like something right out of ["Shit Dean Says: Drunk Edition,"](http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/shit-people-say) but he couldn't believe he'd said that to his own _brother_. They may have had that not-a-conversation on Sunday about Dean's... _you know_ , but Jesus Christ, Dean was not ready for this.

"Oh," Sam continued, "there was also that thing about _body heat_ , was it? Something about blankets and—"

"I said, _shut up_ , or I swear to god, Sammy, next vacation, I am gonna go back to the high school and spread rumors you sleep with a hair net." Dean felt like his heart was convulsing. And though he was lightheaded from the amount of blood rushing to his cheeks, somewhere in the back of his head, he recognized Sam's words for what they were: an acceptance that Dean was okay. Otherwise, Sam would still be all serious and heart-to-heart—and honestly, Dean didn't know which was worse.

"All right, all right," Sam relented with a laugh. And so what if Dean might have smiled a tiny bit, too?—or, er, scowled. Right. Yeah, he was definitely scowling.

"We don't talk about this ever again, capiche?" Dean growled, kicking at the dust bunny on the ground.

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said cheekily, and Dean hoped one day people invented phones that could glare at the other person for you.

"Now that I know you're okay, though," Sam continued, "you really have to admit that this is just hilarious."

"Nope. It sucks is what it is."

"Or maybe _you_ suck, hm?"

"What? I don't—oh, _ew_ , Sammy, that is just _gross_." Dean was _not_ ready for Sammy to start making gay jokes at him. Don't get him wrong, he was so friggin' happy that Sam was so easy and accepting, but Jesus Christ, he would never be ready for jokes. Ew. Just—ew.

"Yeah, okay, that was weird," Sam conceded, and Dean could hear the slight shudder in his voice. Served Sammy right.

"Don't ask, don't tell," Dean muttered.

"I get that now," Sam agreed. "Anyway," he continued, and Dean was relieved to move on, "you sure you're all good?"

"Golden," Dean said, massaging his temples. He would definitely need another painkiller before leaving. "Don't you have nerd stuff to do now?"

"You're the one at the university."

"Don't remind me," Dean muttered, still wishing they could just skip to Wednesday and forget today (and last night) ever happened. In the distance, Dean could hear a shrill chime over the phone.

"That's the bell," Sam said, and there was rustling on the other end, probably from organizing his bag. "Don't be terrible to Cas today, Dean," Sam insisted, "from what I've heard, I bet he's probably really sorry. It doesn't sound like it was his fault. Wasn't yours, either."

"I'm good with the therapy, Freud," Dean said, wondering just how much he'd told Sam. It sounded like quite a bit, judging from what Sam had regurgitated on the fly. "Keep your deep analyses to our Sunday sessions, if you really need to get it off your chest."

"You have the maturity of a seven year old," Sam said with an audible eye roll.

"And you, the perfect hair of a Disney princess."

"Ha ha, jerk."

"Can't deny the truth, bitch," Dean shot back, and despite the disorienting roller coaster that was this morning, he was grinning a bit now. Sam sort of did that, no matter how weird the topic of conversation. Dean was so damn lucky to have Sammy as his brother.

"See you Sunday," Dean said, words solid and almost tactile. It was the one oath of his life that he would never break, rain or shine.

"Bye, Dean. Don't be stupid."

With that, Sam hung up and Dean dropped his cell onto his bed. Well, all of that certainly had been a huge surprise. And despite Sam's advice, despite the miraculous smile that had somehow found its way to Dean's lips on this shitty morning, Dean was still pretty pissed at Cas, if not more, because he figured it was Cas's fault Sam ever even got involved. If Dean hadn't been induced to drink, then he never would have called his brother in the first place. He wouldn't have pulled out the whiskey if Cas hadn't been a rude dick. So, case in point.

Dean got changed quickly and popped two more ibuprofen before he went out the door, bag packed for the day. Tuesdays were the longest, and he wasn't going to be home for hours.

Dean biked over to Thompson Hall, where his epic showdown was gonna take place later today. But more importantly, it was where Professor Moseley's office was. Dean was going to plead with her to let him work alone.

Skipping steps up to the third floor, Dean was outside her door at 9AM sharp, when her office hours began. He straightened himself out and used the iPhone's selfie cam—honestly the only damn way it should ever be used—to make sure he didn't look like he'd partied hard last night with his pal, Jack Daniels. Or at least not _too_ hard.

"Come in," a voice said from inside, right as Dean raised his hand to knock. Uncanny.

Dean stepped in and closed the door behind him, his nose subtly sniffing as the scent of chocolate chip cookies hit him. He seldom went to professors' office hours, but a small office cramped with papers usually didn't smell like baked goods, right?

"Take a seat, Dean. I'm glad you came in," Professor Moseley said, turning toward Dean from her computer, where a lengthy word document was open, dense with footnotes and citations. She gave Dean a beatific smile as Dean gently dropped his bag to the floor, sinking into the only chair that wasn't stacked high with books.

"Before you get into what it is you want to talk about," Missouri began, sliding a few papers around, "we ought to discuss your project proposal."

Shit. That was due today, wasn't it? Aw fuck. In the middle of all the crap that had been going on, not to mention studying for his EE midterm that was later _today_ , the proposal had all but slipped Dean's mind.

"I'm sorry," Dean began, sitting up straight in his chair. "This week—"

"I love it," she said, clasping her hands together and smiling proudly at Dean.

"What?" Dean said blankly, after a moment of silence. She loved that he was missing his proposal? Was he doing a beautiful job of apologizing or something? "I don't understand," Dean admitted, frowning.

"I love it," Missouri repeated, smile widening. "Your project proposal"—she gestured to the open document on her computer—"is absolutely stunning."

Dean glanced at the screen. He couldn't really read it from this distance, but he knew from a glance that he would _never_ have written something like that. It was like a friggin' research paper from an actual journal or something, rife with citations and wordy language, as if someone had looked up each word in a thesaurus and—

Wait a second.

A slew of emotions passed through Dean as the realization hit him. That _had_ to be Castiel's work. On one hand, Dean was a little grateful, because Castiel's perfect timing had sort of saved his ass from perdition, but on the other hand, that gratefulness did nothing to eclipse how suddenly very _pissed_ he was.

Did Castiel not think Dean was capable of submitting his own stuff? How presumptuous of him, putting both their names on it as if he were sure Dean wouldn't have had time to write his own. The fact that he didn't end up having time and was about to be in deep shit had nothing to do with how crappy Castiel's assumption had been. Dean was capable of submitting his own proposal, thank you very much. He just needed an extension.

"Professor Moseley, I don't think you—"

"Hush, boy," she said, a knowing glint in her eye. "This writing is clearly Castiel's work," she said, evenly spacing out each word, "but I know you're a good student, Dean. You would never have let your partner do all the work alone, am I right?" Her eyes bore right into Dean's soul.

Dean swallowed and blinked, his irritation temporarily forgotten in the face of fear. "I, uh... yes, ma'am," he answered, afraid that saying anything else would get him smote on the spot.

"Good," Missouri said with a nod. "And seeing as this experiment you've proposed is already quite brilliant, I am giving you permission to start as soon as today, if you want. If you need any supplies, I'm sure the engineering school has what you need."

Engineering school? What the hell did that have to do with psychology? Dean opened his mouth to ask, but then realized that it'd blow his cover if he didn't know what the proposal had been about. Shit.

"Right," Dean said, trying to read some of the proposal subtly over Missouri's shoulder. He was going to have to fucking ask Castiel to share this with him, wasn't he? And Castiel, the smug bastard, would likely laugh in Dean's face at the fact that Dean had gone with Castiel's proposal in the end.

There wasn't enough ibuprofen in the world for this sort of shit.

"Now," Missouri said, leaning back. "What was it that you wanted to talk about?"

Dean blinked. Oh, right. He'd come here wanting to beg for his freedom, to be rid of Castiel's oppressive tyranny. That plan was sort of shot to pieces now, given Castiel's stunt (which Dean was still pissed about, small tidbit of gratefulness be damned).

"I, uh, I just wanted to check in about the proposal," Dean fibbed, "to make sure it was okay."

The look in Missouri's eyes was inscrutable, and Dean had a feeling lying to this woman was impossible. Fuck. He was about to sigh and come clean when Missouri nodded, spreading her hands in answer.

"Well, there you have it, then," she said. "I'm glad I managed to give you your answer." She smiled gently at Dean. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

_How about the fucking dickwad you assigned me with?_

"Nope," Dean answered, shooting back a smile in return. "That's about it." He stood up, shouldering his bag, ready to get out of this whole situation. Tuesdays were getting weirder and weirder. "I'll, uh... I'll let Cas know. About the proposal."

There Professor Moseley went again, looking like she could smell Dean's bullshit from a mile away. But she didn't call him out on it. Instead, her smile just widened and she nodded again.

"You do that, honey," she said. "I suspect you two work well together. Am I wrong?"

"No," Dean said, sure that his smile was pained and fractured, the sort of smile that screamed for help. "He's great. I'm great. We're all great and peachy." Dean realized he was rambling a bit now, and he shut up, twisting the doorknob. "Thanks, Professor Moseley."

"Good bye, Dean," Missouri said as Dean stepped out. When the door finally closed, she shook her head and sighed, smile still on her lips.

"If you two aren't a match made in heaven," she murmured, "I don't know what is."

 

* * *

 

Dean was so happy about his EE midterm, mostly because he'd finished it fast enough to scarf down a quick lunch and then hightail it over to Thompson a full twenty minutes before section started. The test itself hadn't been all that bad, though Dean figured that was mostly because electrical engineering just made sense to him. It was logical, and it wasn't exactly rocket science, nor was it as "hard" as some high brow academic crap—a fact which Castiel would definitely have liked to lord over Dean.

Well, Dean was going to show him this time.

On the seventh floor, Dean plopped himself down on the bench in the hallway outside room 705, ready to wait for whenever Castiel decided to show his head. The prick was always early, so Dean had no fear that they wouldn't have time to hash things out, for Dean to let Castiel know just how much Dean could do his own damn project, thank you very much. Castiel was probably looking for a word of thanks, or of forgiveness for yesterday, and well, joke was on him, because Dean was giving neither.

So Dean waited.

And waited.

And then from somewhere down the hall, someone's clock chimed to signal the new hour.

What?

Dean looked around him down both ends of the empty hallway, making sure he was in the right place. Yep. 705. There was no email in his phone about a change in classroom (yeah, he'd never tell Sammy how convenient his iPhone really was). There were no other students milling around either. Just Dean and the distant voice of some British lecturer drifting down the hall.

Dean checked the time again, just to make sure. 1PM. Tuesday. Thompson 705. Wasn't this where things always happened? Dean was never a believer in the supernatural, but that wasn't to say he didn't get some weird eerie feelings when shit like this happened to him. After all, it was _way_ too quiet to be an average a Tuesday afternoon.

And then, from right around the corner to Dean's left, the muffled clacking of [bluchers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blucher_shoe) on wood reverberated down the hall—and no, Dean did _not_ jump in surprise and a little bit of fear. No way. He did, however, listen to the shoes as they approached. Dean could almost _see_ Castiel wearing them, all polished and black below his well-cut khakis and stupid sweater vest. Dean never thought he'd actually be relieved by Castiel's presence.

"Cas, I'm not gonna—"

Dean paused when he realized that he wasn't talking to his intended target. It was just Chuck, holding his massive stack of papers as always, pen behind his ear like some wannabe writer. His shoes weren't polished, and they were brown. Dean frowned. Castiel's were way better. And quieter, too.

"Hey, Dean," Chuck said, smiling apologetically. "Sorry I'm late. You wouldn't _believe_ all the stuff that's happened today. I almost made it here and then I realized last minute I'd printed all your proposals to peer edit and I forgot them at my little office, so I had to run back, and then on the way, I... sorry." Chuck laughed nervously. "I'll uh, go in." He jerked his head at the door and then shuffled in that direction, opening it awkwardly with one hand as the other balanced the papers precariously.

Dean didn't get up to help.

Brows furrowed, Dean turned and craned his head to look around the corner, hoping he'd catch sight of Castiel trailing in behind Chuck—you know, because Castiel still had a few things coming to him, and not because Dean _wanted_ to see him or anything. But no. The hallway was empty. Dean gathered up his stuff with a sigh, though he perked up when the elevator dinged, only to droop in disappointment again as a few of his other classmates trickled out. But no Cas.

Whatever. Dean wasn't worried. The guy was probably just running late from a flat bike tire that Dean would then _have_ to fix.

Dean took his usual seat, mind making up weirder and weirder excuses for Castiel's absence as time went on, especially when Chuck handed out their proposals and left the second copy at Castiel's glaringly empty seat. It was fifteen after, already a quarter of the way through section. Just where the hell was he?

Castiel was probably scared of Dean's reaction, Dean figured. Yeah, that was it. Or maybe he'd gotten a paper cut and was at the ER trying to get it bandaged or something, phoning his father and suing the paper company. Probably even called an ambulance.

If Dean weren't so grumblingly irritated at Castiel for all the shit of yesterday and this morning, he probably would have stopped to listen to that little voice inside his head, the one which said that he was being completely irrational, that he wasn't giving Castiel nearly enough credit. Because Dean knew better than that. He'd _seen_ better than that. But as it was, Dean was content with just stewing in frustration—which cleverly masked his slight tinge of worry.

Castiel had never missed a day of section before, after all.

Soon enough, Dean was distracted by peer editing. He'd been paired with some British dude by the name of Balthazar, and so far, it wasn't going all that well. The words were swimming all over the page, and Dean had been rereading the second sentence for the past five minutes, glancing every so often at the door, as if that would magically summon Castiel to him like some fairy godmother.

"Helloooo. Earth to Dean Winchester." A sing-song British voice broke through Dean's thoughts, and Dean turned to the dude, fingers just itching to throttle. He was getting real tired of this accent real fast.

"What?" Dean said, almost a snapping growl.

"Ouch. Touchy, touchy," Balthazar said reproachfully. "And here I was, trying to help you with this," he said, gesturing with Dean's—Castiel's—proposal in his hand. Dean hadn't even had a chance to read it yet. Nothing Balthazar said to Dean would be remotely helpful, and the one guy who would be helped wasn't here.

"Yeah, well I'm fine with that," Dean said, leaning back in his chair and sliding his hand down his face. He glanced at the paper in front of him, still on the first page. "Yours is good, or whatever. Nice. I like your opening sentence." Dean winced inwardly. This was absolutely shit advice and they both knew it.

Balthazar raised one eyebrow at Dean. "Well, yours isn't so hot," he said, declining to comment on Dean's _raving_ peer review. "And if you weren't so preoccupied looking around for your boyfriend in a trench coat every two seconds," Balthazar continued, "maybe you'd actually see that."

Dean tore his gaze back from the door, eyes narrowing at Balthazar, hoping the threat of his glare would detract from the bright crimson of his cheeks. First of all, Dean did not feel _anything_ positive toward Cas, let alone affection. Second of all, it was one thing for Dean to be pissed at Castiel and call his work crap (which it probably wasn't, let's be honest), but hearing someone else say that just made Dean see red. What the hell did Balthazar know?

"Castiel wrote it perfectly," Dean said with vehemence. And only a few seconds too late did he realize what he'd just said, what he'd admitted to. Dean glanced up to make sure Chuck wasn't paying attention (and to no one's surprise, he was just sitting there quietly, smiling awkwardly at all the discussion groups, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else right now). Balthazar, however, _did_ notice, and Dean wanted to sock that cheshire grin right off his smug lips.

"Castiel wrote it perfectly, hm?" Balthazar said, a cat-eating smile on his face. "How cute, defending your boyfriend's honor like that," he commented. "Although I should hope you wrote some of it, too." Balthazar's eyes honed in on Dean, expression too shrewd for Dean's liking. "Or is there some trouble in paradise?"

"There is nothing nowhere, except my pencil in your leg, if you don't shut up," Dean said, holding up his No. 2 to back up his threat. He hadn't twirled it all section. Didn't feel right without Castiel to direct his impatient twiddling at.

"Ooo, I'm so scared," Balthazar said with a laugh. Dean's eyes narrowed and he sat up straighter, leaning in. He was about to give Balthazar a true piece of his mind when he heard the door creak open. Dean's heart—swear to god—stopped for a second.

Dean's head whipped up faster than Sammy could say "objection," and definitely way faster than Chuck could say, "Hey, Castiel," as if Castiel being absent for forty-five minutes was a perfectly normal occurrence.

Castiel shuffled in and took his seat, and Dean almost expected a whole funeral party to come trailing in behind him, judging from the raincloud that seemed to be looming over his head. The whole room seemed to get darker, even though rationally, Dean knew it was just as sunny outside right now as it had been before.

Castiel looked like shit. Maybe it was the energy efficient institutional lighting, but there were bags under his eyes and wrinkles where Dean didn't even know wrinkles could be. He looked like he'd been to Hell and back. Saving Dean's ass this morning couldn't have been _that_ bad, could it?

_"I bet he's probably really sorry."_

Okay, so maybe Sam had a point. But even then, sorry didn't look like this. _Really_ sorry still didn't look like this. Sheesh, if making a jab at Dean's dead mother did this to Castiel, Dean had no idea how Castiel survived on a daily basis with the way worse horrors of the world.

Castiel stared down at the proposal in front of him, eyes blank. Chuck leaned over and said something to him and Castiel blinked up, eyes focusing. He offered Chuck a weak smile and then said a few words. Then they slid the proposal between them. Chuck was likely giving him criticism since there was an uneven number of students in the room now.

Dean's arms twitched as he looked on, aching just to walk over there and hug Castiel, because no one deserved to look that bad. And then, of course, his thoughts backtracked and he crossed his arms, not knowing what the fuck he'd been thinking. Dean's mother was a touchy subject, so of course he had a right to be pissed. And Dean was perfectly fine submitting his own proposal, so Castiel shouldn't have presumed anything. It served Castiel right for feeling guilty, then.

Right?

As if sensing Dean's thoughts, Castiel looked up and met Dean's eyes. Dean was relieved to see that they were still blue as ever, but they were so... dull. Empty. Dean decided right on the spot that he hated that look more than he hated anything else Castiel had ever done. It was like, a part of the commandments that Castiel should never look like that.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, not sure what his own expression was at the moment. But before he could even get a single sound out, Castiel's face closed off and he looked away, back to editing the proposal with Chuck.

Balthazar glanced between them, lips thinned to a thoughtful line. "Trouble in paradise it is," he finally said quietly, leaning back in his chair. Dean shot him a glare, jabbing the pencil threateningly in his direction. Balthazar held his hands up in surrender, looking away.

Dean glanced back at Castiel, but no matter how long or hard he stared, for the last ten minutes of section, Castiel never looked up again.

 

* * *

 

"Castiel!" Dean called, running after his project partner. "Cas!" He'd trailed Castiel from the classroom out to Thompson Hall's front entrance, trying to find some privacy somewhere in the middle. But the hallways were crowded with students changing rooms, and then by the time Dean had caught up to that head of messy black hair outside, Castiel was already straddling his bike, putting his helmet on.

"Cas, give me a sec," Dean said, jogging toward the bike racks. Castiel turned his head and looked up. His eyes zeroed in on Dean, and it was unmistakable that he'd definitely heard Dean calling after him, seen Dean running. A flurry of emotions crossed over Castiel's expression, but before Dean could interpret any of them, Castiel had already turned away. He straightened the bag hanging by his side so that it wouldn't touch his knees, and then he kicked off, pedaling down the road.

"Cas!" Dean huffed. "Stop that bike right now or I swear to god—" But Castiel was already out of hearing distance, pedaling away from Dean as if Dean's words meant nothing, as if he'd assessed what Dean wanted to say, and what Dean had wanted to say was crap.

Dean's feet pounded the pavement as he forced himself to a stop, staring after Castiel as his tan trench coat got farther and farther away, until finally, Castiel turned the corner and was gone from Dean's sight.

Dean was _pissed_.

But he was also anxious and worried and a whole bunch of other stupid crap that shouldn't have been there. He still wanted to hear Castiel apologize, but whereas before, he just wanted to hear it for his own satisfaction, now he wanted to hear it so he could— so he could tell Castiel he was forgiven. God damn it, Castiel had to give Dean that chance, didn't he?

Dean contemplated just sprinting after Castiel, or quickly getting on his bike and making a mad dash for it, but he knew it was too late. Castiel was gone, and Dean had no idea where he was going. The university's campus was huge, and knowing Castiel, he could have gone to any of the graduate schools too for his advanced seminars or whatever. He could have been anywhere.

Anywhere but right here, with Dean.

Fucking hell.

With a scowl that would have sent even the bravest of pigeons fluttering from his path, Dean unlocked his bike and pedaled to the bike shop. If there was any day he needed the soothing sounds of chains and gears to calm him down after a Tuesday section, it was today. Dean was beyond irritated. He felt sick to his stomach and the headache from this morning was coming back twofold. And if he ended up finding out that Castiel's incredibly odd and freakin' depressing behavior today was because of him—well, Dean would never forgive himself.

And that just fucking sucked.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the afternoon passed horribly, too slow and too frustrating. Dean had gone into the shop and holed himself up with his hardest project, the restoration of a [1925 Iver Johnson](http://amhistory.si.edu/onthemove/img/media/l/532.jpg), which Rufus had entrusted to Dean because it was damn difficult. It required patience and a great eye for detail—neither of which were Dean's best traits, except when it came to bikes, cars, and grilling burgers. Usually, Dean jumped on stuff like this, ready to devote a solid four or five hours to one bike alone, caring for it and cleaning it up as if it were his own baby. With classic rock blasting in the background and the warm, comforting heat of the garage, nothing could go wrong.

So why did he feel like shit?

Even when Sam called for their usual Tuesday afternoon chit-chat, Dean had given one cursory glance at the phone and silenced it, his bluetooth headphones still in his backpack, untouched. Dean wasn't in the mood to talk about Castiel, who he was sure would inevitably be the topic of conversation. He'd spoken to Sam this morning anyway.

When his phone buzzed with a text, Dean's heart leapt to his throat. He dropped his wrench and scrambled for the phone (an action which he'd vehemently deny for the rest of his life). He hoped (again, with full future deniability) that there'd be some sort of stilted thesis statement lighting up his screen, calling Dean out for something like a grammatical badass. Maybe broccoli was a fruit, too.

_Is everything good?_

Dean deflated. Just Sam. And no, nothing was good. Dean let his phone clatter back onto the ground beside the toolbox, not caring to give an answer. Sam would only ask more and more things, and Dean wasn't really in the mood to play 20 Questions right now.

Ugh. Fuck Castiel. Fuck him and his moodiness and his stoic silence, taking Dean's thunder away from him. Dean was supposed to be the one who ignored Castiel today, not the other way around. Dean was supposed to be the one who chewed Castiel out, who gave Castiel a piece of his mind and then stormed off angrily, leaving Castiel to feel bad for his mistakes. Castiel already feeling bad sort of canceled out Dean's plans. And Dean sure as hell was _not_ supposed to be sitting around darkly stewing in frustration and worry—er, not worry. Just frustration. And irritation. And anger.

Fucking Castiel.

Dean contemplated texting Castiel something, but he had nothing to say. He wanted to hear the apology in person, he figured. That was why. Not because he wanted to see with his own eyes that Castiel was okay or something. Castiel could take care of himself. Dean didn't care.

Dean hissed when he accidentally cut himself on one of the gears, trying to grease the newly de-rusted chain. Just his luck. And that luck seemed to be _great_ , because by the time Dean called it quits at 6:30PM, his empty stomach begging for mercy, four of his fingers were wrapped in Band-Aids. And for some reason, someone decided to stock the place with only children's Band-Aids (fucking Jo, probably playing a practical joke), so Dean felt even more like an idiot now that he was a walking advertisement for PBS.

Tuesdays were just full of never ending shit, weren't they?

Just to spite him, the cafeteria had nothing edible. They were going through a nutrition-conscious week, and it was just rabbit food everywhere Dean turned. ("You can't spell 'health' without 'eat'!"—what the fuck sort of a slogan was that?) Dean grabbed two bagels, toasted and piled high with cream cheese, yearning for the days of bacon cheeseburgers and the build-your-own-nachos bar.

As Dean got some napkins to wrap his meal to to go, he snapped a photo of the healthy eating sign with all the overly colorful food choices in the background, texting it to Sam.

_Found your Nirvana_ , Dean wrote. And then, because he'd be a dick brother if he didn't say anything about the huge elephant in the room, Dean added, _And I'm fine, you dork. Go worry about college apps or something._ Those were due at some point soon, weren't they? Jesus, it was hard to believe his little Sammy was already a senior in high school. Dean felt so old. Soon enough, Sammy would be moving on with his life, wouldn't even need Dean anymore. He'd leave Dean behind like he'd wanted to leave his old man behind.

Fuck this onion chive cream cheese for making Dean tear up.

Dean scarfed down his bagels as he exited the dining hall, not wanting to be around all the healthy oppressive cheer anymore. With a weary sigh, Dean rounded back to the bike rack, eyeing the gray sky above. Guess the forecast for rain hadn't been wrong after all.

Dean felt the first droplets hit his nose as he straddled his bike, ready to head home. Thunder rumbled in the distance, ominous and foreboding. It reminded Dean of Castiel's deep voice, like warm honey over gravel, rolling across his skin. It also reminded Dean of how much he fucking _hated_ thunder. It was not a nice sound at all. No way.

Flipping up the collar of his leather jacket, Dean began to pedal back home. His usual route would have been congested with pedestrians at this hour, walking around the area in search of dinner or quick shelter from the rain. So Dean took a detour, bringing him by the massive lake the school was named after. Or maybe the lake and the school were both named after the same dude. Dean never cared enough to find out.

Dean would have missed seeing it, had it not been for the flash of thunder, illuminating the waterfront and the stretch of park green that ran all the way around the lake. There was a bench next to a weeping willow, and on that bench was a person. A man. With incredibly messy hair and a dress on, long as his calves. No wait. A trench coat.

Dean had never biked faster.

Nearly skidding on the newly formed mud, Dean ground to a halt on the path, right at the bench. Castiel didn't look up. He was staring emptily at the lake, almost longingly, like he wanted to walk in and lose himself in there forever. Well, not on Dean's watch, he wasn't.

Dean leaned his bike on the tree trunk and approached Castiel, hesitantly and quietly. The air thrummed around him, as if packed with static electricity, set to release at the drop of a pin. Dean was afraid that one wrong move would set everything ablaze.

"Cas?" he asked, walking closer, now close enough to touch the bench if he wanted to. Castiel still didn't look up.

Dean frowned. He might have felt worry for the guy, but he wasn't about to be a part of any pity party, especially not as the wind began to pick up and the occasional drop of water turned into a steady drizzle.

"You gotta look at people when they talk to you," Dean said gruffly, stepping in front of Castiel to block his view of the lake. That got a reaction.

Castiel looked up, brows creased in a contemplative look that quickly turned into an irritated frown upon recognizing his intruder. The fire in Castiel's eyes could have inspired whole wars.

"I don't _have_ to do anything, least of all listen to you. The world doesn't revolve around _you_ , Dean," Castiel said, evenly and calmly, though his tone hummed with unleashed energy, like the air around him. "Now if you'll excuse me, you're blocking my view."

Dean turned to look at the lake behind him, trying to stamp down the squeamishness in his gut at how scarily _strong_ Castiel seemed sometimes. He swallowed, watching the lake as another bolt of lightning flashed down, water rippling in the wind.

"What view?" Dean retorted, turning back to Castiel, glad that his voice carried more strength than he felt right now. He had to remind himself that he was still pissed. "You're gonna catch a fucking cold sitting out here in the storm."

"Why do you care?" Castiel bit out, lips thinned to a line.

"I don't," Dean replied, probably a little too quickly. But he didn't. Honest. "I just... uh..." Shit. "I'm just pissed about what you did this morning," Dean said, crossing his arms. His voice picked up in confidence as his mind latched on to this train of thought. Anger, Dean understood. "I'm pissed that you thought you could pull that off, as if you didn't think I could propose something on my own." Dean spat on the ground. "And don't you dare think that somehow makes up for what you said yesterday, either. Writing a paper doesn't make up for a dead parent."

Dean expected a fight. He expected Castiel to stand up and back him up into the tree or something, or manhandle him until he was one step away from falling into the lake (no, Dean's dick did _not_ twitch at this inappropriate moment). But instead, Castiel held still, as if registering Dean's words, and then his shoulders slowly drooped, lungs squeezing out a heavy sigh.

"No," Castiel replied quietly, "it definitely doesn't." His smoldering eyes simmered down as he looked away from Dean, eyes staring at the soggy dirt as if it held all of life's answers.

Okay. Something was _definitely_ wrong.

Dean tried goading Castiel. "What, you're just gonna sit there on your high moral horse and not apologize for that? Not gonna tell me you were wrong and that you feel bad for giving me a sleepless night full of nightmares down bad memory lane?"

Castiel closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the drops fall all over his face. _Finally_ , Dean thought. They were getting somewhere. Maybe Castiel would snap. Maybe he would unleash the fires of Hell on Dean. Maybe he—

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Well, fuck.

"I'm sorry I said that about your mother yesterday," Castiel said quietly, eyes open now, staring remorsefully at Dean. "I never should have assumed, and I apologize for whatever consequential events occurred because I'd dredged up those memories. I'm also sorry for submitting the proposal under our names. Last night..." Castiel looked down at his lap. "I wasn't trying to make up for anything, Dean. I was only trying to lighten your work load on a night I'd already ruined. That's all. If you so desire, I'll email Professor Moseley first thing tomorrow and sort it all out."

Dean stared at Castiel, his heart clenching up with each subsequent word that fell off of those chapped lips. They weren't even so chapped anymore, wet from the water, because here Dean was, standing in front of a weirdo in a trench coat who was sitting on a bench by a lake, gradually getting drenched as a light drizzle changed to heavy showers. Thunder clapped, and now all they needed were some violins and it'd be a scene right out of "The Notebook."

Dean felt empty. Castiel had apologized, and Dean thought an apology would be all they needed, all that was necessary for the storm clouds to go away and [Giselle](http://disney.wikia.com/wiki/Giselle) to come out of hiding. _I forgive you_ hung at the edge of his lips, but even that didn't feel like it was nearly enough. Dean had the apology and now suddenly, he wanted nothing to do with it. It hadn't been what he'd been looking for.

Everything felt wrong. It felt like there was something larger weighing down this moment, something Dean didn't know or understand. Castiel had apologized, but that wasn't what was making him sad.

"You're an idiot," Dean muttered, eyebrows furrowed. Castiel glanced up at Dean, and for a second, Dean was hopeful that Castiel would yell, that that little spark in his eyes would ignite whole forest fires once again. But nope. Castiel just looked away again, opening his mouth probably to say something all deep and soulful. Well, Dean wasn't going to pity him. He'd had enough of this shit. Depressed Castiel fucking _sucked_.

"Come on," Dean said, reaching out and grabbing Castiel by the shoulder. "I don't want your half-assed apologies."

"What?" Castiel said, stumbling up to a standing position, startled at Dean's actions and confused at Dean's words. "Dean, I'm sorry. I really am. Please, let me—"

"Nope," Dean said stubbornly, latching on to Castiel's sleeve and pulling him to the weeping willow, where Dean's bike waited, ready to be walked home. "I already said, I don't want your bullshit," he griped—not that he didn't believe Castiel sincerity, but sincere apologies were doing nothing for him right now.

Dean gripped the handlebars of his bike, pulling it from the tree. "And I definitely ain't leaving you out here alone," he said. "Like hell am I gonna let you die of pneumonia or whatever before we finish the psych project," Dean grumbled. "Now are you gonna cooperate or am I gonna have to knock you out and carry you or something?"

Castiel blinked at Dean, and Dean decided he was only gonna give it five seconds before he just followed through with the second plan. Luckily, on the count of zero, Castiel nodded, a quiet and small gesture, but that was enough for Dean.

"Good," Dean said, kicking up his kickstand with his heel. He began to walk, making sure Castiel was following.

"Dean..." Castiel began, as they stopped at the crosswalk. His voice sounded exactly like Sam's before he quoted Lincoln or Sun Tzu or something to Dean, and Dean definitely was not in the mood for that right now.

"Can it, Cas," Dean said, and his tone left no room for argument. "No more apologies or whatever, and no more trying to talk your way out of this, too. I can be one stubborn sonuva bitch." The light turned and Dean began to walk across. He listened for Castiel's feet, scampering to catch up to him after a pause.

Castiel didn't say anything for two blocks. He didn't ask where they are going, either. Dean turned the corner at the Gas-n-Sip and led Castiel down the final stretch toward shelter, acutely aware of the heat of Castiel's presence next to him—mostly because everything else was so damn cold. Probably. Dean's teeth were chattering, and though Castiel appeared perfectly unfazed, Dean figured he must have been freezing too. A trench could only go so far.

Only when they reached the front door and Dean stopped at the bike rack outside did Castiel finally say something.

"Okay," was all it was. Quiet, a whisper. Dean had almost missed it over the howling wind.

"Okay?" Dean parroted, looking at Castiel. But Castiel was looking at the ground. Dean had already having forgotten what the hell Castiel could have been replying to. But "okay" was way better than "no," he guessed.

"Okay," Castiel reaffirmed, with an extra nod this time. And well, that was more than enough for Dean.

 

* * *

 

Dean shucked off his shoes the moment he stepped in through the door, hanging up his jacket on the wall hook before shivering his way over to the closet, eager to get out of his soaked and freezing clothes. Behind him, he could hear the muffled thud of Castiel's shoes as he did the same, followed by some rustling as his trench went up on the hook beside Dean's. Dean was being _very_ careful to keep his mind extremely blank right now, just focused on the immediate issues rather than the fact that, shit, Castiel was here right now, _in his room_.

Rifling through his drawers, Dean pulled out comfy flannel bottoms and an old worn shirt, putting them on the top shelf of the closet. And then, almost as an afterthought, he pulled out a second set of the same stuff, because Castiel was standing right behind him, likely shivering his ass off, too.

Dean paused when he opened the drawer that held his boxers and socks, blushing wildly. He was so glad that his back was to Castiel right now, otherwise he'd be struck dead with embarrassment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before just going for it, pulling out two pairs of boxers and setting them on top with the rest of the stuff. After all, maybe it was possible to get dick pneumonia. Or like, a dick cold. And haha, whoa, Dean was _not_ gonna think about Castiel's dick right now.

Slamming the drawer shut with probably more force than necessary, Dean grabbed all the clothing, separating them quickly into two bunches. He kept his back to Castiel as he began to talk, hyperaware of every article of clothing he was about to pass over to his project partner. Fucking blue boxers matched Castiel's eyes. Jesus Christ.

"You, uh, should get changed," Dean said gruffly, wondering how his face could hold so much blood and not pop a vein somewhere. He swallowed and sniffed self-consciously, coughing. "Take the bathroom," Dean said, turning around slightly only to hold the bunch of clothes out to Castiel.

Castiel's eyebrows drooped as he stood by Dean's door, looking at the bunch in Dean's hand. "Dean..." he began, though Dean didn't allow him to say much else. Castiel looked like some lost abandoned puppy like that, and Dean was having none of it.

"Getting you out of the rain ain't gonna stop you from dying on me," Dean said. "And I ain't gonna do that damn project alone, I'll tell you that. I'm not gonna carry your grade." Dean glanced up at Castiel, making eye contact for the first time since the lakeside. "You finally gonna prove me right about you being a selfish prick?"

Castiel hesitated, but then finally sighed, stepping forward and grabbing the clothes from Dean. Their fingers didn't touch. Dean made sure of it.

"Thought not," Dean said, looking away again, turning his back to Castiel once more. He rummaged around his closet aimlessly until he finally heard Castiel walk away (sheesh, the guy could wait a damn long time if he wanted to). Only when the door to the bathroom finally closed (noticeably _without_ the click of a lock) did Dean finally deflate, leaning his forehead against the wood of his cabinet and closing his eyes.

What the fuck was going on?

Dean was merely being nice. And looking out for himself. Because yeah, if Castiel got sick, then they would never get this project done. And Dean had no idea when he'd decided that they were definitely going to do this together, that they were gonna carry out the proposal Dean had yet to read, but whatever. It was decided. And no way in hell was Dean gonna do it solo.

Dean adamantly ignored the voice that pointed out all the other shit that was going on, how Dean wasn't even remotely angry at Castiel anymore, how Dean's chest was tight with worry for Castiel's depression, and his pants a little bit tight with—uh, heavy with water. Soaked. Dean needed to change.

Trying very hard not to think about Castiel getting naked one room over, Dean quickly got into his pajamas. Thunder clapped twice outside and the rain pelted down even harder. It was looking to be a massive thunderstorm. Soon enough, there might even be flood warnings and district school cancellations and—

Shit.

Castiel probably had to sleep here.

Well, that jumpstarted Dean's brain, pushing it into overdrive. Resolutely avoiding any visuals that his overly imaginative brain suddenly provided, Dean busied himself trying to build some sort of sleeping arrangements on the floor—because yes, someone was definitely gonna be on the floor.

The down side to having a single in the corner of the hallway was that Dean had very little space. He had a personal bathroom, but that came at the expense of couch space and general living area. So when he'd laid his comforter on the ground and tossed one of the pillows down from his bed, there wasn't much ground to walk around. But Dean could definitely say it was way better than sharing a twin bed with some guy he... disliked. Very much. Practically hated. Uh huh.

Every time Dean had to step past the bathroom door, he ignored the rustling noises he heard, ignored the intake of breath as Castiel no doubt shook the water from his body or stepped into Dean's—pants. Pants. God damn it, Dean should have given Cas a towel.

Dean was a blushing mess by the time Cas stepped back out. He was lightheaded and woozy, almost drunk off his own blood. He'd downed two whole glasses of water from the pitcher he kept in his mini fridge and was gunning for a third, wondering if some painkillers needed to be added to the mix.

"I hung my clothes up on your towel rack," Castiel said quietly, though to Dean, his voice was louder than any roaring thunder. Dean swallowed the last of the water and put the glass down on his desk, taking in a deep breath and turning around.

—And he almost turned right back.

Jesus Christ, who the fuck looked that good after walking around in wind-swept rain? Dean was pretty sure he still looked semi-homeless right now.

The Zep shirt hung differently on Castiel's torso than it did on Dean's, too tight on Cas's shoulders but loose on his waist and arms. Dean was more buff than Castiel was, but Castiel likely had back muscles that put Dean's to shame, judging by how the shirt fell. Dean's pants were a little too big for Cas, even with the drawstring, so it slipped down his hipbones, hanging there like some tantalizing full-page spread in [Maxim](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maxim_%28magazine%29)—or Dean's version of it, at least.

"Okay," Dean choked out, forcing a smile as he reminded himself to take deep breaths. Castiel wasn't attractive. He wasn't. He was an annoying, self-entitled dick who was arrogant and too rich for his own good. His family probably had a gym named after it somewhere, maybe even a whole college. Dean couldn't stand those sorts of people, so he definitely couldn't stand Castiel, attractive or not. And by that, he meant not. Not attractive. At all.

"Well, uh... you can sit on the bed if you want," Dean said, gesturing to his mattress and looking away. There wasn't enough space to pull out his desk chair. He turned his back to Castiel and squatted down by his fridge.

"You hungry?" Dean asked, busying his mind and his hands with the thought of food. "I've got some leftover pizza and sausage lasagna from the caf." Dean pulled some of the containers out and put it on his desk, so glad that he kept his stuff neat and organized. It'd be incredibly embarrassing to find moldy cheese somewhere in here right now with a guest in the room—no matter how much Dean disliked said guest, of course.

Dean closed the fridge and stood up, turning to Castiel. He knew he was rambling, but he couldn't stop. "I also have some beer and coke, though there's uh, a water boiler and tea, if that's more your style. It's definitely Sam's." Castiel's face twitched when Dean mentioned Sammy, but Dean dismissed it as an illusionary side effect of his own lightheadedness. Because wow, was it just him, or was it suddenly hot in here?

Dean could feel Castiel's eyes on him, watching his every move. Jesus, maybe they should just turn off the lights and go to bed, despite the fact that it was only—Dean checked his phone—8PM right now. Well, at least Dean would be away from Castiel's scrutinizing gaze in the dark. Dean glanced up and met Cas's eyes. Yeah, scratch that. He'd definitely still feel that weight, darkness or not.

Definitely about to say something stupid, Dean was so relieved when Castiel finally shifted, breaking eye contact and moving to the bed as Dean had directed. "I'm not hungry, but thank you," Castiel murmured, settling down on the edge of the mattress, his posture perfectly rigid. He looked so uncomfortable and out of place, so lost and awkward that some of Dean's own hesitation left him. After all, both of them couldn't be weird tonight, Dean figured, though without any reason to back it up. It was just fact. Whatever. It made sense to Dean, and that was all that mattered.

"Peppermint or vanilla chai?" Dean asked, a little more composed than before. He put the food back in the fridge and moved to the closet where he kept Sammy's stash, pressing down on the water boiler along the way.

"What?" Castiel asked, tilting his head a little bit. Dean felt his system flood with relief at seeing that little familiar action, and it confused the fuck out of him. Hell no, he wasn't relieved that Castiel wasn't completely gone off the deep end. Where would you get that idea?

"Tea, captain oblivious," Dean said, reaching in to look at the containers. "There's lavender too, though I don't know why I keep that around, since we both hate it." Dean pulled it out and stared at it. "Probably should throw it away, to be honest."

"I like lavender," Castiel piped up quietly, staring at Dean again. Dean glanced up. Cas's eyes were still pretty dull, but a little spark had returned, and damn, if lavender tea was all it took then Dean would hoard the stuff.

"Oh," was all Dean said, getting self conscious again and looking away. Despite his flaming cheeks, never once did it cross Dean's mind that maybe _he_ could have been the reason behind the returning light in Castiel's eyes, instead of some fru-fru tea. It was such an absurd thought, after all.

Dean put the container back after retrieving one of the packets and a mug (which read, "I like my coffee as black as my soul"; it'd been a gag gift from Sam to inaugurate Dean's new dorm room). He didn't say anything as he waited for the water to boil, and then poured out a cup for Castiel. Dean walked over, stepping on top of the impromptu "bed" on the ground. Touching fingers with Castiel was unavoidable as he handed the mug over, though Dean retracted his whole hand as soon as the deed was done.

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel said, eyes wide and solemn as they held Dean's gaze. Dean needed to crack a joke or a window or something, because Jesus Christ, the air was too thick in here.

Dean swallowed. "No problem," he said, forcing up a smile. He briefly contemplated sitting down beside Castiel, but quickly decided against it. The ground was just as comfortable. Castiel didn't say anything as Dean took his seat at the foot of the dresser.

The next twenty minutes were Hell on earth.

Castiel sipped quietly at his tea, staring down at his murky depths and occasionally tossing glances at Dean which Dean resolutely pretended not to notice. Dean whipped out his phone and checked his email, for the first time in his life wishing he had more things in his inbox. Every so often, he glanced up at Castiel, but made sure to look away the moment he suspected Castiel would look up too.

By the time Dean had emptied his inbox (having dealt with all 278 messages in his avoidance of Castiel), Dean had had enough of the silence. Yeah, it was underscored by continuous rain and punctuated by Castiel sipping at his drink, but a man could only take so much before he began to go a little cuckoo.

"So," Dean began, tossing aside his phone. He knew he immediately had Castiel's attention. He could feel it, Castiel's stare penetrating his every pore. It was so damn creepy. Dean shuddered and pulled his legs up, leaning his arms on his knees, staring at his callused fingers to distract himself from that sensation.

"What are you in for?" Dean tried to joke, as if they were inmates stuck in this cramped cell together. He flashed Castiel a smile, but Cas's brows only furrowed in return, giving Dean that little cute—weird—confused look of his.

"I'm inside because it's raining outside," Castiel tried to answer, missing the point entirely. Dean sighed, ready to try again, but apparently, Castiel wasn't done. "And for some reason," Cas added, staring right into Dean's soul, "you have found it in the goodness of your heart to take me to your home. Thank you, Dean."

Oh, no. Dean was not doing this right now. His room wasn't gonna turn into some sort of [_Eat, Pray, Love_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eat,_Pray,_Love) support group.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean sniffed, rubbing at his nose with his hand. "As I said, I'm not gonna carry your weight for the project."

"I never said you would."

"And this don't mean we're square on anything either."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Was it Dean's imagination, or—? Dean glanced up at Castiel, and yeah, sure enough, there was just a little hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. Dean's heart beat double time.

"Good," Dean said, swallowing and looking away again. He twiddled his thumbs, fingers itching for a pencil to twirl around right now.

"Anyway," Dean said, moving on. "What was with the, uh... you know. The whole act today. 'S not like you to show up late and stuff. Gotta protect your alpha nerd reputation, don't you?"

Dean didn't get an answer. Castiel was quiet for long enough that Dean looked up, only to see Cas tipping back his mug and draining it down to the dredges before setting it down on his lap, hands still probably enjoying the warmth.

Castiel wasn't looking at Dean when he answered.

"Tomorrow," he murmured, and Dean blinked at him, confused.

"What?"

Castiel looked up at Dean, eyes serious and, sadly, still quite dull. "I'll tell you tomorrow," he promised, and his tone held just the hint of a plea that Dean wouldn't push for it tonight.

"Okay," Dean agreed, not liking how depressingly foreboding Castiel's promise was. Dean had been begging all day for Wednesday to come quickly, and now he suddenly didn't want it anymore, didn't want to know about what the hell could have made Castiel act this way. It definitely wasn't anything about Dean's mom or the project proposal. It was way deeper, way scarier.

Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know anymore.

They fell into a silence again, until Castiel slid off the bed and walked over to set the mug on Dean's table.

"Thank you again for the tea," he murmured, "and the warm clothes, too." Castiel walked back to the bathroom and said, "I'm getting tired, so I'm going to change and go back home. Your hospitality has been—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Dean scrambled up after Cas. "Wait a minute. You're not going anywhere." Dean jabbed a finger at the window. "It's pouring outside."

"I'll call a cab if it makes you feel better, so you don't have to worry about a failing grade in the case of my ill-timed death."

"What? Cas, this isn't even about the—" Wait. Dean caught the slight twitch of Castiel's lips, the small glint in his eye. "Shit, Cas, did you just make a joke?" Dean couldn't believe it. Castiel Novak had a friggin' sense of humor. Who would have thought?

Castiel's lip twitch formed into a small little smile, and Dean just had to laugh, feeling an oppressive weight lift off his chest with every new breath of air.

"All right, hotshot," Dean said, smiling now as he leaned against the wall, "don't think this makes you funny or anything."

"Of course not," Castiel agreed, that light still in his eyes. Then his brows furrowed for a bit as his smile dropped to a frown, saying, "Although, I was being serious about going—"

"The hell you were," Dean said, shaking his head. He jerked his head away from the bathroom. "Come on," he murmured. "Plenty of room for both of us."

Castiel seemed to contemplate Dean's words for a second, but then he finally nodded. Dean was probably imagining the blush on his cheeks.

"I'll have to pay you back for this," Castiel said, glancing at Dean.

"I expect you to," Dean said, his smile still there. "With interest." Then he detached himself from the wall and walked over to the duvet on the ground, ready to call it a night. People have gone to bed at weirder hours than 9PM, Dean figured, though he'd never let Sam catch wind of this.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked, his voice as puzzled as his expression.

"Going to bed. Tomorrow generally comes faster if you do that," Dean answered, shuffling the pillow around to a nice spot.

"Yes, but your bed is up there," Castiel said, pointing at the mattress, not moving from his position by the bathroom door.

Dean was _not_ having this argument. "Well, you're the damn guest," Dean said, "so just suck it up and deal with it. I can sleep wherever I want to. It's my room."

"Dean—"

" _Cas_."

Castiel was silent for a while, and Dean could feel Cas's eyes on him yet again. Just when Dean thought Castiel had given up, had finally relented like any normal human being, he felt a hand on his shoulder, a shadow falling over him. Dean should have known by now that Castiel wasn't some normal human being.

"Dean," Castiel began, and Dean had to look up to meet Castiel's eyes. Those eyes glinted down at him, and with the way the lighting worked, Castiel's face was mostly hidden in shadow, creating a pretty menacing look, to be honest.

"Yeah, Cas?" Dean said, and no, his voice didn't fucking crack.

"Sleep in the bed," Castiel murmured. "Really, I insist."

Dean didn't know what it was, because Castiel's words were gentle and his tone was perfectly normal, and yeah, the position was a bit odd, but he was still the same old Castiel. Nevertheless, put it all together and you got one badass motherfucker suddenly looming over Dean. Wasn't Castiel dripping and depressed a second ago, like some wet, abandoned puppy? Jesus Christ, what a turnaround. That must have been some magical lavender tea he'd drunk.

"... Okay," Dean said, swallowing and letting go of the pillow. His cock suddenly twitched and Dean sprung up, scrambling backward to get as far away from Castiel as possible. Flannel pajama bottoms did _not_ hide boners well.

"Dean?" Castiel asked quizzically, standing up and looking perfectly normal again. What the fuck?

"It's cool," Dean said, sitting awkwardly at the edge of the bed, shifting his weight around to try to hide his inappropriately interested dick. No fucking way was he gonna cross his legs. That was going too far.

"I'll, uh... Yeah, I'll take the bed," Dean murmured, heart still pounding. "You sure you're cool with the ground?"

The smile Castiel gave Dean banished any lasting doubts. "I'm great," Castiel said, settling down. He puffed the pillow up a bit. "Thank you, Dean."

"No problem." Dean glanced away and slid from the bed, walking awkwardly sideways to hide his crotch from Castiel's sight. "Just gonna go turn off the lights." Dean flicked the switch and darkness flooded the room. He breathed a sigh of relief, able to stand normally now that Castiel couldn't see him anymore. And no, Dean was not going to analyze what the hell his having a boner _meant_. He just knew he had one, and that was awkward. Everything else was need to know, and yeah, Dean did _not_ need to know.

"You good?" Dean said to the darkness, picking his way back.

"Perfect," Castiel mumbled. Dean nodded, even though Castiel couldn't see him. He settled back into the bed, his sensibilities telling him it was wrong for him to be up here while his guest was down there. But hey, Cas had insisted.

Dean shifted around a bit to get comfortable, and he could hear Castiel doing the same.

"Good night, Cas," Dean murmured, dismissing the thought of how weirdly _nice_ it was to say that. Just plain weird was what it was. Yeah.

"Good night, Dean," Castiel replied, his rumbling voice timed perfectly with the thunder outside. And soon enough, Dean drifted off to sleep.

Somehow, he didn't mind the thunder so much anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, let's be honest. Dean definitely watched "Enchanted." You know it, I know it, and he knows it. He probably watched it twice.
> 
> Also, Dean and Cas go to an unnamed university somewhere in Kansas. I decided not to put it at a marked location because the specificities of the setting aren't important to the story. I also think there's some magic to a story that can take place anywhere, a story that exists in a realm of its own, able to be moved wherever the reader wishes. Ironically, in a way, it becomes more real that way.
> 
> And I hope you enjoyed all the Mystery Spot references as much as I did! Hehe.


End file.
